


The Wolf Who Played

by petyrbaealish



Series: The Wolf Who Lived [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-04-29 04:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14465331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish
Summary: Fic Summary:Part 2 of The Wolf Who Lived series. A re-imagining of Harry Potter with Sansa Stark as The Wolf Who Lived, and Petyr Baelish as the Potions Master she fell in love with in her sixth year at Hogwarts. The Wolf Who Played chronicles her seventh year at Hogwarts, where the Triwizard Tournament and Petyr's plans to introduce Muggle technology to the wizarding world give Sansa and her friends (and Petyr) more than enough to deal with.Through it all, Sansa and Petyr work together to play the game, and win it.Chapter Summary:A primer/refresher for the events leading up to this fic (from The Wolf Who Lived and events prior), and a glimpse of things to come.





	1. Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by etherina, who is absolutely the best <333.
> 
> This fic, and the one that precedes it (The Wolf Who Lived) was inspired by her fic, The Darkness in Our Souls, which you should totally check out as well. Also, check out her new fic, Adamantine, which I am proud to say I am the beta for :).
> 
> Also, if you want you can find me on tumblr as @petyrbaealish. The blog heavily features Petyr x Sansa content and Aidan Gillen :)

So far, summer hadn’t been nearly as unbearable as Sansa Stark had expected it to be. Since she was now of age in the wizarding world, the magic that had kept her safe for seventeen years, born from her mother’s sacrifice, was no longer in effect. This meant that, unlike every year preceding, she wasn’t forced to spend the summer break at the Eyrie with her Aunt Lysa and cousin Robin. 

That in itself was an incredible blessing, one she’d looked forward to ever since she’d first started at Hogwarts and learned just why she had to live in the Eyrie, when she had other, much more loving and palatable family members willing to take her in. Only the fact that Lysa Arryn had the Tully blood within her veins made the woman a better caregiver for Sansa than Sansa’s Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Rhaegar. Lysa was Sansa’s mother’s last living relative, save for Edmure Tully (who was currently serving a lifetime sentence in Azkaban for betraying Sansa’s parents). As such, living with Lysa had given Sansa protection from the dark wizard that had once tried to kill her, and from the followers that lingered still amongst the wizarding populace, biding their time. 

Due to events that occurred several months ago, Sansa knew now that, despite the general consensus of the wizarding world, Voldemort was still out there, alive and awaiting the moment he would return to power. Voldemort had killed both her parents and her older brother when she was but an infant, all victims to his determination to kill a baby predicted to be his equal in one measly prophecy. The fact that she had lost the protection from her mother’s sacrifice should have worried her, but in fact she was more relieved than anything.

It was quite telling that Sansa would rather risk her life than go back to the Eyrie for the summer to be with Lysa and Robin.

She imagined that, were anyone else in her position, they’d feel much the same as she did.

But, the main reason she’d dreaded this summer, was one she’d wholly unexpected before she’d started her sixth year at Hogwarts. Who would have thought that a year could change so much?

And yet it had.

Sansa had fallen in love, in the most unexpected of ways. She’d fallen so deeply that she’d given over herself completely, irreversibly, exquisitely. The man who had stolen her heart had taught her so much over the school year, of love and loyalty, of magic and life. Of herself. And Sansa was determined that nothing would ever part them, so long as they both still lived.

Unfortunately, even though she was officially considered an adult in the wizarding world, she was still attending school, with one more year until she’d officially graduated from Hogwarts. So, when the school year ended, it was expected that she spend the summer with her Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Rhaegar at Winterfell, rather than elsewhere. And, since Sansa couldn’t exactly just move in with her Potions Master, student-teacher relationships rather frowned upon (or so she imagined. She wasn’t sure the matter had ever come up before), she’d figured she might as well stay with family. It was easier than attempting to explain why she wouldn’t want to stay at Winterfell, when she’d always looked forward to her visits before.

Still, despite not being able to live together, or be seen in public as a couple, Sansa and Petyr had found a way to be together. Just before term had ended, they’d completed a ritual that had bound their minds, hearts, bodies, and souls together, a magic that would forever link them to one another until death parted them. Whatever their distance, they could join minds and check in on each other, and, upon her breast, above her heart, was a mockingbird, which pulsed in time to Petyr’s heart. He had a similar mark, shaped like a direwolf, which beat in time with her own life’s pulse. 

In addition, Petyr had gotten her a summer job at the Ministry of Magic, as an intern in the Goblin Liaison Office. As he was head of the Goblin Liaison Office, this gave them plenty of opportunities and reasons to be with each other in public, both at the Ministry and at Gringotts in Diagon Alley. Something which most certainly pleased them both.

He’d wrangled the position for her by playing on the advantage Tywin Lannister, the Minister of Magic, would have by cozying up to The Wolf Who Lived (a name she’d been gifted with after her so called defeat of Voldemort over sixteen years ago). Tywin was getting desperate for anything to help him keep his post, as he struggled to maintain the image that he was doing a wonderful job managing the wizarding world of Great Britain. And, since it was well known that Petyr had taught her private lessons last year, it wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows for her to accept an internship under him, especially since she made it publicly known at the beginning of summer that she was starting to consider a career in the Ministry after she left school. She honestly wasn’t, still determined on a career in potions, but nobody need know that. 

Though, since she’d started working there, she had to admit that politics held a certain allure….

Of course, time together wasn’t the only reason he’d hired her. No, they had other reasons for her new employment, far beyond romance. Petyr had taught her much about wizarding politics in Great Britain, in between lessons in Legilimency and Occlumency, as well as frequent bouts of lovemaking. These lessons weren’t merely about preparing her for Voldemort’s eventual return (though that in itself always weighed heavily on their minds), but about implementing the plans Petyr had spent years crafting. 

He had hopes of shattering the pureblood mentality that still ran rampant in the wizarding world, using Muggle technology to simultaneously destroy the prejudices that had previously held him back, and elevate his own status. When they’d fallen in love, his plans had become hers. Sansa wanted nothing more than to help him achieve his lifelong ambitions, and if it helped create a better world and usher in a new age of enlightenment, all the better.

Not to mention, her not so little problem of dealing with Voldemort would be far easier with the majority of wizardkind, in Great Britain and perhaps beyond, at her back.

Indeed, the summer had honestly been the best Sansa had ever had, all things considering. She was busy, to be sure, preparing for Voldemort’s eventual return, helping Petyr forward his plans, working, spending time with loved ones, and doing the homework her professors had set for the summer holiday. And whenever she wasn’t with Petyr, even with their minds connected, she missed him. But overall, it was a far cry from summers at the Eyrie.

No crazy aunt to swoop in on her on a moment’s whim, no sickly Robin to pester her to play with him. No sad, lonely existence with only her direwolf to comfort her.

Instead, Sansa was staying at Winterfell with the Targaryen-Starks, among them one of her best friends, Arya Stark. Sansa loved her Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Rhaegar, and her cousins, Jon, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. And she loved Winterfell too, with its godswood, and the four direwolves that prowled its premises, her own direwolf, Lady, joining the pack like she’d never left. It was one of life’s lovely little coincidences that the Targaryen-Starks had adopted four of Lady’s siblings, with the last, Grey Wind, living at Hogwarts with the gamekeeper Rubeus Hagrid. Sansa loved the fact that though the siblings had been parted soon after birth, they were all reunited in the end.

Her other best friend, Margaery Tyrell, was staying at her home, Highgarden, for the summer, but, having passed her Apparition test at the end of last year, Margaery made frequent visits to Winterfell. Sansa was thrilled that for once she wouldn’t spend the summer alone, with only letters and Lady to keep her company. She, too, had passed her Apparition test, and, together with Arya (who had also passed), they sometimes visited Margaery in Highgarden, or met in Diagon Alley. Sometimes Margaery’s boyfriend, Fred Weasley, joined them, as well as Arya’s friend, Gendry Waters (who Arya insisted was nothing more than a friend), and sometimes they met with other classmates, former or current, by chance or design.

Often, when Margaery visited Winterfell, they all went to the godswood to practice dueling. Both Margaery and Arya had been informed that Voldemort (whose name Margaery still refused to speak, along with most of the wizarding world) was still alive, and though they’d been terrified, they’d all agreed that they’d better prepare themselves for his eventual return. Sansa didn’t mention that their practice was in fact Petyr’s idea, though both her friends knew that she was dating him. While Sansa was immensely grateful that she no longer had to hide her relationship from her best friends, there was still so much she unfortunately had to keep secret from them. She hated betraying their trust, but if she had to for anyone, she’d do it for Petyr. And, for now, it was best to keep the majority of her plans with Petyr a secret. Even those that involved preparing for the inevitable fight with Voldemort.

Meanwhile, three days a week, Sansa Apparated to the Ministry, for her job in the Goblin Liaison Office. Her aunt and uncle thought that Sansa worked five days a week rather than three, a necessary lie she’d told so that she could spend the remaining two days with Petyr, in his home or elsewhere, developing her skills in Occlumency and Legilimency, among other things. Today was Monday, and, rather than Apparating to the Ministry, she Apparated to just outside Petyr’s home, letting herself in through the door set into the gated driveway and sealing it behind her with a spell.

Petyr Baelish was like no one she’d ever met before, and yet like someone she’d known all of her life. It was this enigma that had drawn her to him, along with his characteristic smirk, impeccable wit, and the streaks of grey lining his temples that somehow only heightened his appeal. He helped bring out the potential he’d quickly seen in her, and she had blossomed considerably under his tutelage, in more ways than one. His love had changed her, helped her come into her own, and she knew that without him, she might never have gained the strength to fight for what she wanted, to shield herself and the ones she loved from Voldemort’s wrath.

They complemented each other so well, both talented in Potions and Legilimency, with a taste for the finer things in life. She loved just listening to him talk, whether he was teaching her something or simply making conversation, and even when they argued, which wasn’t often, their differences were quickly resolved. He made her laugh and cry, grow and change, and every moment spent with him, even in times of strife, were moments that she’d never trade for anything. He challenged her, treated her like an equal, and though at first he’d been fairly closed off, in time he’d let her in, allowing her to see everything he had to give.

But as much as the rest thrilled her, Sansa's favorite moments with Petyr were often found amidst their times of passion. They both had magic in their veins, but as they moved as one, she felt an entirely different kind of magic, one far deeper and far older than casting spells or brewing potions. It was stronger too, weaving their very souls together as their bodies joined, an unstoppable force that was both terrible and beautiful in its very nature. Love had bound them together, even before they’d performed the ritual that had made them inseparable, and love would keep them together. 

Even in death.

She had already lost so many she loved, and though she missed her parents and brother every day, she knew her love for them kept them near. So it would be if death parted her and Petyr, though, if she could help it, it wouldn’t.

Sansa walked right up to the front door and whispered “Lemon Cake” to unlock it, then slipped inside. Whenever she visited, he locked the door so that it would only open for that particular password (or others they’d agreed upon), and sent away the house elves that looked after the property. He also sealed the fireplaces against unwanted intrusions, and, of course, like many wizarding dwellings, it was impossible to Apparate directly in and out of the house (though Petyr and Sansa could both Apparate from room to room once inside, if they so wished). In addition, he made sure not to schedule any visits with any of the various contacts he kept at his disposal. 

She found Petyr in his office, hard at work, like she always did when she visited. But, like always, as soon as he saw her he stopped, laying aside his quill in favor of kissing her hello. Sansa slipped into his lap, lacing her fingers together behind his neck, and kissed him, smiling against his mouth, his lips curved to match her own.

“Good morning, sweetling,” he said when he’d pulled back, grey-green eyes alight with the same smile that still lingered on his lips. 

“Good morning,” she murmured.

“Did you sleep well?”

Sansa nodded. He leaned in and kissed her again, then gently urged her off of his lap. “Good,” he told her, rising from his seat. “For we have a busy day ahead of us.”

They spent the day as they usually did on Mondays and Wednesdays. Starting first with Occlumency, the most trying of her lessons, and therefore the best to start with, when her mind was fresh. Then, they broke for lunch, discussing their plans, adjusting their future moves as needed, arranging for every contingency they could think of. After they’d eaten, they’d continue strengthening her talents in Legilimency, sometimes following up with practice in the art of dueling, before they whiled away the rest of their time on whims that had little to do with their plans for the future. 

It was an uneventful day, and she quite liked it that way, for she’d had far too many eventful days in her life, and she knew she had many more eventful days in store for her. Some coming far sooner than she would have liked. This coming weekend, she was to go to the Quidditch World Cup finals (Ireland vs Bulgaria) with the Targaryen-Starks, Margaery and Fred (though they had seats with Margaery’s family), and Gendry. Even though she honestly had little interest in Quidditch, she figured the spectacle of it all would be fun. And Petyr would be there, since as the Master of Coin he’d helped budget the whole event in conjunction with the Department of Magical Games and Sports. That in itself was a draw. 

They’d even be sitting in the same viewing box, as her Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Rhaegar were invited on special invitation by the Minister of Magic, since the Bulgarian Minister’s family was a huge fan of Rhaegar’s music, and Rhaegar was even set to perform during the halftime show. Of course, Sansa and Petyr were unlikely to be able to sit together, or even pay much attention to one another (at least outside their mental connection), but still.

In addition, school was to resume again in a few weeks. Her seventh year had already promised to be of greater import than her earlier schooling, since it was her final year at Hogwarts before she graduated and struck out on her own. But two other events occurring this year would make the year an extraordinary one to remember.

Not only was the legendary Triwizard Tournament set to return again after decades, ensuring that it indeed would be a year of unparalleled excitement, but Petyr’s plans were going to be set into motion soon after the start of term. It was the perfect opportunity to introduce Muggle technology to the wizarding world, with students from two other schools staying at Hogwarts for the duration of the tournament, and the event itself providing ample reason for the students to use their newly purchased phones and their newfound access to the internet. 

Sansa had been coached through using her own phone (given to her by Petyr last Christmas) in a myriad of ways this summer, and she knew that her fellow students would love being able to take pictures and record video of the Tournament, and to chat with one another via social media. With her help (she was, after all, The Wolf Who Lived), and that of her friends (both of whom were popular among the students at Hogwarts in their own right, and, while ignorant of Petyr’s overall agenda, had both already learned the basics from playing with Sansa’s phone and were eager to get their own), the trend would spread like fiendfyre. 

Of course, everyone would be skeptical at first, and wonder just how Petyr had managed to ensure that Muggle technology would even work around magic, but they’d soon see they had nothing to worry about. Petyr had worked hard to find a way for magic and Muggle technology to coexist, and so far the spell he had used to block magic from interfering with it was foolproof. 

Unfortunately, that skepticism wasn’t like to be their only obstacle. Those steeped in wizarding superiority (mainly purebloods, or wizards masquerading as such), who rejected anything to do with Muggles, were bound to raise objections. And the Minister of Magic, Tywin Lannister, was likely to be at the forefront. But Hogwarts wasn’t wholly subject to the Minister’s authority, and the Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, was free to do as he wished so long as it didn’t conflict with established laws. And since Petyr worked with Tywin, in more capacities than one (Master of Coin, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, spy for the Ministry on none other than Hogwarts and Dumbledore himself, all vital roles), the Minister would begrudgingly allow it, so as not to lose such a crucial ally. 

Not to mention, both Sansa and Petyr suspected that Tywin initially wouldn’t consider the introduction a threat to his rule, and would persist in the belief that it would never take off. And by the time he realized otherwise, it would be far too late. The youth of the wizarding communities would be clamoring for phones and the internet, obsessed with both, dependent on both, not unlike the youth of the Muggle world, and it would spread from there. 

In introducing the technology to the students from other magical communities, during the Triwizard Tournament, Petyr was ensuring that his plans to introduce technology would flow beyond Great Britain, thus making it harder for any laws to be enacted banning it. If more than one magical community adopted Muggle technology, accepted it, opposition would be weakened considerably, as support would be strengthened in greater numbers and across a greater cross section of peoples, influential, and otherwise.

Sansa was nervous, yes, but also so very excited for what was to come. It was bound to be a year to remember, just as last year had been, but this time she hoped it would be remembered mainly for the highs, and not for the lows. Her sixth year had been her best yet, mainly because of Petyr, but also her worst, with the majority of the school convinced she was attacking other students, Margaery and Petyr being Petrified, and finally Sansa’s trip deep into the bowels of the school, where she’d met with Voldemort for the second time in her life, and nearly died at his hand. She’d triumphed in the end, but it still wasn’t an experience she’d like to revisit any time soon. 

Even though she knew she would eventually.

Just not yet, she hoped.

No, this was going to be her year. She was going to help Petyr with his plans, and further her own future in the process, making a new name for herself and stepping out of the shadow the name The Wolf Who Lived had cast over her. 

And after Hogwarts, when the time came, then she’d end the threat that Voldemort held over her life.

She’d play the game he’d begun, and she would win. And Petyr would be right there, by her side, through it all. 


	2. Disappearances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes to work and tends to her duties as an intern at the Goblin Liaison Office. While there, she hears some unsettling news.

It had been a nerve wracking experience at first, working at the Ministry of Magic, but Sansa had adapted quickly, slipping into the skin of someone else, someone more confident, someone who navigated the tricky waters of wizarding politics with ease. Petyr’s tutelage had helped, but it also seemed that she held a natural talent for it. 

Of course, her skills in Legilimency helped considerably, and, with Occlumency as her armour against unwanted mental intrusions, she was protected from those that sought to slip behind her mask and ferret out her true intentions. Never had she been more grateful than during her work at the Ministry, for all of the lessons Petyr had spent teaching her how to access the minds of others, and how to block others from doing the same to her. Few people, even in the Ministry, had learned either skill, and Sansa often used this to press her advantage when she could. It was so easy to slip into their minds, to learn their hopes and dreams and fears, to study their wants, to pull vital information from their grasps. And they were never any the wiser that she knew all their secrets, their minds completely unguarded and ripe for the plucking.

There were a few minds she’d never dared to breach, that of the Minister’s, Cersei Lannister’s, and Varys’, as well as that of any other Unspeakable. All Unspeakables were proficient in Occlumency, and Varys was also (according to Petyr) an incredibly accomplished Legilimens. As for Tywin and Cersei Lannister, Sansa wasn’t bold enough or confident enough in her abilities to give in to the temptation. And anyway, she had learned quite enough of Cersei and Tywin through Petyr (including many things she rather wished she didn’t know) and figured she’d just get all of her information through him. 

Not to mention, she didn’t exactly have much contact with either Cersei or Tywin, since she was just a lowly employee in the Goblin Liaison Office. Mainly she just worked with Petyr and his other two employees, Lothor Brune and Olyvar Stone, as well as several of the goblins at Gringotts. Anyone else she saw was merely through happenstance, as she rode the lifts or walked through the corridors of the Ministry.

Still, that was often more than enough time to glean office gossip, both of personal and professional natures, from whoever she happened across. Sometimes Sansa didn’t even need Legilimency to pry, those around her speaking as if she were invisible, once the novelty of her fame had worn off. She was just a low level employee, after all, and still in school. It surely didn’t matter if  **_she_ ** overheard anything.

So they assumed, anyway.

Sansa arrived bright and early on Tuesday morning, Apparating into one of the magical fireplaces lining the Ministry’s atrium, and appearing in a burst of green flame. She could, of course, have used Floo Powder, as many Ministry employees did (her Aunt Lyanna and cousin Jon included), but Sansa had only received her Apparition license a few months ago and she couldn’t help Apparating whenever she had the opportunity. Plus, she found she rather preferred Apparition over traveling by Floo Powder; it was quicker, less uncomfortable, and certainly a great deal cleaner. Although, since she had to Apparate using the fireplaces, like everyone else, she still wound up getting at least  **_some_ ** soot on her clothes, unfortunately. 

Thankfully, she’d found a nifty little spell to vanish any soot on her person soon after starting work. Petyr had been most pleased by her discovery; he hated having soot on his clothes too, or being unkempt in general. It was one of their many commonalities, that they both took a certain pride in their appearances. 

She loved him for it.

The atrium was already packed with people, all milling about as they sought fellow coworkers or their offices. Sansa slipped through them, her eyes glossing over the giant fountain in the atrium’s center, which, while beautiful, always made her uncomfortable. The fountain had once featured a witch and a wizard, along with a centaur, a goblin, and a house elf, all together in a show of magical cooperation. From what Sansa’s Aunt Lyanna had said, the fountain had depicted all of the magical beings that weren’t human as gazing adoringly up at the witch and wizard; Lyanna had long been disgusted with this representation, and her ire had taken over more than a few mealtime discussions.

Now the fountain featured a scene even more unsettling to behold. Gone were the centaur, the goblin, and the house elf. Gone too were the witch and wizard. In their places stood instead Tywin Lannister, surrounded by his family: his wife, long dead, and beautiful; and his daughter Cersei, and her twin brother, Jaime. Even Tywin’s youngest son, Tyrion, was there, though not in a place of prominence. Finally, Cersei’s three children (publicly known to be fathered by the late former Minister, Robert Baratheon, though Sansa knew better. Jaime Lannister was in fact both their uncle and their father, a fact which still made Sansa’s stomach turn whenever she remembered it), Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen, were there by their mother’s side, all younger than they were now by a great deal, and yet Sansa still thought she could see the cruel glint in the eyes of Joffrey’s likeness. The statues were carved from solid gold, with rubies set into the base of the fountain, a gross show of opulence from a family and a Ministry that, in reality, had little wealth remaining. 

Sansa hated that fountain, and not simply because it made her skin crawl, the way it seemed as if Joffrey was watching her, just waiting to catch her alone. Petyr had told her much of the Lannisters, and what she’d learned of them, coupled with her own experiences with Joffrey, had made her hate their very existence. Myrcella and Tommen, both very sweet and wholly unlike their older brother, were exempt from this hate, as was Tyrion, whom Petyr had informed Sansa was at odds with his family more often than not. As for the rest, Sansa would relish helping Petyr orchestrate their ruin. 

The lifts were always a bit tight in the mornings, but today they were especially so, many of their occupants sour faced or still caught between shedding the daze of sleep, and full wakefulness. Sansa edged her way inside one and tried to ignore the way the pale violet paper memos were zooming cheerfully around her head. There were many more of those too, this morning. 

She wondered why.

The lift began its descent, opening at Level One first, where Sansa knew Petyr must be, along with all of the other top Ministry employees. She ached to go to him, missing him fiercely, despite the fact that they’d seen each other only yesterday, and that he’d greeted her in her mind when she woke up this morning, as he always did. Their minds were still connected, as they always were, but he had retreated from conversation for the time being, pressed with work matters. She understood, of course, and had her own work to attend to, but she still craved to talk to him, to  **_see_ ** him, all the same.

No one made any move to leave and the lift door slid shut again, resuming its descent to the second floor, where a man with deep black skin joined the crowd on the lift, his mouth drawn tight in a frown. Sansa recognized him easily; he was Kingsley Shacklebot, one of the Aurors from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He worked with her Aunt Lyanna, and her cousin Jon, too (in fact, her aunt was the head of the Aurors, so he technically worked  **_for_ ** her). 

Sansa wanted to sneak into his mind, to learn the cause of his distress, but refrained. Many Aurors were trained in Occlumency, and she doubted Kingsley would be any different. 

And, as luck would have it, it seemed she had little need to.

A smaller woman with mousy hair nudged her way over to where Kingsley stood, peering up at him with wide eyes. Kingsley nodded in acknowledgement. “Mafalda,” he said.

Mafalda’s eyes darted around the lift, then back to Kingsley. “Kingsley.” She swallowed, then lowered her voice. “Has there been any word?”

Kingsley shook his head. “Anything we know, you know,” he said heavily. “The Greyjoys are distraught, of course.”

Mafalda made a sympathetic noise. “Perhaps he simply got lost?” Her voice turned to a whisper. “I had heard tell that the boy wasn’t the most adept at magic.”

Kingsley sighed. “Perhaps, but two disappearances in a month doesn’t bode well. We still haven’t heard a wink from Bertha.”

The corners of Mafalda’s mouth turned downwards. “Ludo insists she’ll turn up though,” she said hopefully. “Says her memory’s always been a bit spotty. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

“No,” Kingsley said, shaking his head again. “I don’t think so. Bertha was said to be traveling to Albania, and Theon was last seen just outside of there.”

Albania.

Sansa felt her throat constrict. Hadn’t Petyr told her before, that Voldemort was last seen lurking about Albania? Without a body, formless, and yet still likely capable of murder, if he happened upon Bertha or Theon and wanted them dead.

The lift stopped at Level Three and everyone shuffled around Sansa, letting some people depart and others climb aboard, a flurry of memos fleeing and entering. Kingsley and Mafalda had grown quiet, but Sansa had learned more than enough already, enough to make her head spin.

Perhaps her next encounter with Voldemort would be sooner than she’d previously thought.

When the lift doors opened again at Level Four, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Sansa nearly didn’t remember that it was her stop, her thoughts blurring the world around her. She left the lift in a daze, walking numbly through the corridors to find the little room that contained the Goblin Liaison Office.

Sansa didn’t know either Bertha Jorkins or Theon Greyjoy all that well, though she’d gone to school with Theon. He’d been about Jon’s age, a few years above her own. She’d never paid him much mind, in all honesty. Now she regretted it. So young, and now he might be dead, or worse, at the hands of Voldemort.

As for Bertha, she knew the woman only through reputation. Before Sansa had even begun working at the Ministry, Bertha had left for a months long vacation, encouraged by her boss, Ludo Bagman. It was only recently that Bertha’s disappearance had sparked alarm, her close friends and family worried that they hadn’t heard from her in some time, despite promises to write and frequent letters sent her way. Sansa had known of this before, but she hadn’t known that Bertha had been intending to go to Albania.

Kingsley had the right of it, Sansa thought. This didn’t seem to be mere coincidence. No, there was more to it. And Sansa was certain Voldemort was involved.

She wanted to reach out to Petyr, then and there, but resisted the temptation. He was busy, and this wasn’t a pressing matter that needed immediate discussion. She could wait until later, when they had the proper time and space to talk. And anyway, she’d bet he already knew. As part of the Minister’s Council of Advisers, he was privy to information most were not. 

Lothor Brune was already seated at his desk as Sansa entered the Goblin Liaison Office, head shielded behind an open copy of the Daily Prophet. He grunted as she made her way to her own tiny cubby, depositing her purse before she began snatching at the pale violet memos spiraling above his head. Lothor paid her no mind as she chased an errant memo around the little office, finally pinning it against the wall with a dull thud (in hindsight, it might have been easier to use immobulus on it. Oh well. Next time, she supposed). As she retreated back to her seat, memos crumpled in hand, she cast a scowl at his nappy grey hair peeking above the newspaper, annoyed that he hadn’t offered to help or even taken notice of her efforts. It wasn’t his job, but still. 

He could have offered.

Most of the memos were throwaways, interdepartmental announcements that were ignored by most and probably not even read by the rest: mainly reminders to dispose of said memos properly; notices about that day’s weather in the windows that had been installed despite the Ministry’s location underground (today, overcast with a chance of rain!), as if they couldn’t tell just by looking out the windows, if indeed they had them; and warnings not to leave howlers too long. One memo was of at least some interest, sent from Petyr, concerning a trip he’d be making in the next few days to Gringotts, and requesting that she go with him. Another was about new regulations for departmental heads, and she yawned as she passed it off to Lothor, before grabbing the stack of mail that had arrived and beginning to sort through it too.

The Goblin Liaison Office was nearly always fairly quiet. Goblins mostly liked to keep to themselves, misliking wizarding involvement in their lives and fiercely independent. Only Petyr’s connections with them (he’d been taken in by goblins, working for them in order to pay off medical debts, when he was cast out of his home in his youth. This and his natural talent for numbers had led to him being named Master of Coin, in addition to his post as Goblin Liaison) and the necessary relations required from the fact that they ran Gringotts, the wizarding bank, provided any business. Although things had gotten a bit busier than normal, due to the fact that Great Britain was hosting the Quidditch World Cup this summer, and then the Triwizard Tournament beginning this fall. Both needed funding, and funding necessitated working with Gringotts and the goblins that ran it. 

Still, even with both events looming, there usually wasn’t much for either Lothor or Sansa to do that would fill an entire workday. Sansa didn’t mind it. This job wasn’t about the ‘job’ per say, but about learning more about the Ministry’s inner workings firsthand, and the employees within it. And she’d had ample time to work on the homework her teachers had given her for the summer, and to research her other interests, that of potions, or of magical combat or methods of magical healing (the latter two more of a necessity than an interest). Sometimes she even sewed, or drew, in those moments she had nothing else with which to occupy her time.

It was almost lunchtime when the young man whose post she’d temporarily taken dropped by, pulling Lothor aside for a whispered conversation. Sansa wanted to tell them that they needn’t bother, that she was privy to far more than they ever would be, concerning their boss, but of course she couldn’t. They weren’t to know how close she and Petyr were, how much she knew. 

Olyvar Stone had trained Sansa in her duties before leaving to attend other matters, ones which currently took precedence over his post at the Ministry. Officially Olyvar had left to care for his ailing mother, who was on her deathbed and required around the clock care. However, Sansa knew better. Olyvar was in fact an orphan, but he was Muggleborn, like Petyr, and therefore Tywin didn’t bother to look into Olyvar’s family history, disinterested in dealing with Muggles any more than he had to. Instead, this excuse was merely a cover story for Olyvar’s real reason for taking a break from the Ministry. 

Olyvar secretly worked for Petyr beyond any duties at the Ministry, spending his days ferreting out secrets and passing them along to Petyr. This summer, she knew, Olyvar was getting close to the Baratheons via Renly Baratheon, whose bed he often shared. In addition, Olyvar also kept tabs on the secrets the magical portraits in Petyr’s attic held, and kept a particularly close eye on Sansa’s Aunt Lysa, who had discovered Sansa’s relationship with Petyr last year, and, while her memory had been modified, needed looking after just in case. And, last but not least, Olyvar was assisting with Petyr’s plans to introduce technology and the internet to the wizarding world, helping with production and testing. He’d be resuming his post at the Goblin Liaison Office after Sansa left for school, but by then most of the preparations would be finished and he’d be able to take on his old job again without much trouble.

Olyvar finished his conversation with Lothor, winking at her with an impish grin before he left. Sansa flashed him a smile, then turned back to the book she’d been reading, her work done for the day already, despite the early hour. She wondered briefly what Olyvar had said to Lothor, before pushing it out of her mind. Both men were trained in Occlumency (Petyr required all of the people he worked closely with outside of the Ministry to be proficient in the skill. And, like Olyvar, Lothor had duties beyond that of his official post at the Ministry. It wouldn’t do for either of their minds to be easily pried into), so she couldn’t exactly peek into Lothor’s mind for answers. And anyway, Petyr would tell her later, if she needed to know.

Or if she asked.

Sansa read a bit longer, learning about advanced dueling techniques, then closed her book and set it aside, stretching as she stood. “I’m going to get some lunch,” she announced, swiping her purse from its perch and turning to face Lothor.

The older man looked up from the letter he’d been drafting, brow creased in thought. One corner of his mouth tightened, and then he glanced back down to the parchment, smoothing it flat where it had begun to curl. “Won’t say no to a meat pie, if there’s any left.”

“The usual then?” she asked, quickly checking her reflection in her pocket mirror before snapping it closed and slipping it back into her purse.

“Mhmm.”

That was Lothor. His words were few, but his loyalty was sound, and so Petyr kept him on. Sansa liked the man alright, but she rather wished he’d offer a bit more to the conversation. Sometimes it felt like pulling teeth, when she had to talk with him about office matters. He never talked much if he could help it, and she always felt like she was bothering him whenever she had to say anything, though she knew that wasn’t the case. Though he was quiet, she could tell he was kind.

Sansa wove through the corridors, back to the lifts, and made the ascent back to the atrium. She was alone in the lifts, having purposely waited past the usual break for lunch, so as to avoid the rush. Petyr didn’t care when she left for lunch, so long as she was gone only for the hour specified. 

Normally she chose to go when everyone else did, giving her more time to pick the brains of her fellow employees, but today she felt she’d rather learned enough. Her mind was too full with Theon and Bertha’s disappearances, and the possibility that Voldemort was involved.

Just before the lift reached the atrium, the doors opened at Level One, revealing none other than Petyr himself, and Ros, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. Sansa fought to keep her expression neutral, even as a wave of jealousy flooded through her. 

What was he doing with Ros?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the first chapter was mainly summarization, I thought I'd post chapter 2 this weekend, then begin posting once every two weeks :). 
> 
> Looking forward to your thoughts!


	3. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little afternoon delight ;). Sansa and Petyr talk about the disappearances and what they must mean.

Sansa stiffened as Ros made her way into the lift, but the other woman barely glanced Sansa’s way, too focused on talking with Petyr. His shoulder gently brushed against Sansa’s as he followed Ros into the lift, and Sansa felt the pulse quicken of the mockingbird above her heart, as her own pulse quickened in turn. It had been so steady before, calm and sure, but one touch and she’d sent his heart skittering. 

Her jealousy waned, ever so slightly.

“Tywin’s really been up my ass lately,” Ros was saying, voice lowered. “What with the Cup, and the tournament, and now those disappearances. He’s getting anxious about the lack of improvement with the Ministry budget. ‘We can’t have our visiting dignitaries knowing how fragile things are,’ he says. Keeps insisting we need to put up a strong front.” She snorted. “Don’t know what he’s so worried about. It’s not like any of them will want to take over. They’ve got their own magical communities to worry about.”

“The World Cup and the Triwizard Tournament are both well in hand,” Petyr assured her. “Everything’s run smoothly thus far and there’s no reason to suspect anything will go amiss with either. Tourism will be up due to both events, and with it will come an influx of wealth, for him as well as the Ministry. As for the disappearances, Varys has already told the Minister that he’s looking into them, and we kept them quiet as best we could.” He shrugged. “The press was bound to find out eventually. It’s just lucky Rita Skeeter broke the news and not someone with more credibility.”

The lift doors opened to the atrium and Ros sighed. “I think I need a drink. Or five.”

Petyr chuckled. “Best wait until later,” he advised. “Else Cersei might find a kindred spirit in you.” 

Ros pulled a face as Petyr turned to face Sansa. “Just the person I was looking for. Might I have a word?”

Sansa nodded, and followed Petyr out of the lift, watching out of the corner of her eye as Ros disappeared around a bend in the hallway. Petyr led the way to a back room, furnishings dusty from disuse, and carefully shut the door, locking it with a spell that was resistant to all attempts at forced entry, including Alohomora. Immediately Sansa was in his arms, all thoughts of jealousy, of Voldemort, even of lunch, forgotten. Her lips found Petyr’s and for a moment silence hung in the air, and in their minds, thoughts and words torn from their grasp.

When they broke apart, she leaned her forehead against his, breathless, lips still pulsing gently, as though his own were still upon them. “Were you really looking for me?” she asked, wetting her bottom lip with her tongue.

He chuckled, the sound even raspier than normal, and kissed her again. “No, but I’m glad I found you, nonetheless.”

She hummed in approval as his mouth sought hers once more, his fingers weaving into her hair, her own clawing at his back as he pushed her against the wall. One of his hands found its way under her skirt, the fabric bunching as she raised her leg, his other hand catching it beneath the knee, holding it up. He found her bare, and groaned against her mouth before dropping to his knees, hitching her leg over his shoulder as his tongue found her slit.

Sansa’s head fell back against the wall, mouth parted as he licked into her, a whimper escaping her lips, barely heard even in the quiet. The small sound spurred him on and she bit her lip, restraining a moan. She mustn’t be too loud. 

Not here.

Her fingers dug into his scalp, and he hissed at the pain, but didn’t stop, his tongue merciless. His hands found her hips, pressing her back against the wall as her legs began to shake, and he was all but holding her upright, one of her legs still hooked over his shoulder, as she traversed her peak. A cry fought to break free but she quickly stifled it, biting down hard on her lower lip, breaking the skin for her efforts. 

Sansa felt the soft press of his lips against her tender skin, and then he shifted her leg from his shoulder and rose to his feet. Still propped against the wall, she trembled, her legs still watery, barely able to support her weight. Petyr reached out, tracing her newly bruised lip with the pad of his thumb. Her tongue darted out, tasting copper, and she winced. He leaned closer, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth, whispering against her skin as his thumb smoothed over the wound. The skin knitted beneath his touch, becoming whole once more, the swelling receding as the spell took effect, and then his lips replaced his thumb and she’d forgotten everything else but the way it felt when he kissed her.

Soon she was gripping the back of a chair, and he was inside her, and it was quick and brutal, and she nearly split her lip again as she fought to keep quiet. She loved it when it was like this, but oh, how hard it was to hold back the sounds she usually made so freely. Next time she’d have to remember to cast a spell first, to keep any noises they made from traveling to ears they weren’t meant for. 

If only either of them had enough wits left to cast the spell correctly, to know it was without defect, while still in the throes of passion. Although, sadly, neither of them could ever pause long enough to cast said spells, even if they were able to muster up enough concentration to do so. Once they were caught up in each other, they were often lost to everything else that didn’t immediately demand their attentions.

Luckily, they’d at least remembered to lock the door first this time.

They took their time afterwards, making certain they left no evidence of their coupling behind, and that neither of them looked like they’d just been fucking secretly in a back room. This was far from the first time they’d fucked at the Ministry, so they well knew what they had to do to right their appearances once they’d finished, so that no one would suspect anything. Clothes were inspected carefully, hair was combed, and the like. 

Petyr kissed her one last time before promising to meet her at his home after she’d gotten off work. They wouldn’t have long together, as she was expected for dinner with the Targaryen-Starks, but they had some things to discuss, notably the disappearances of Theon Greyjoy and Bertha Jorkins. 

He left first, and Sansa waited awhile before checking to make sure no one was lurking in the hallway and slipping outside. For good measure, she locked the door behind her, hoping that it would help deter any wanderers from peeking inside. She didn’t have enough time to stop in Diagon Alley for lunch anymore, as she had previously planned, so she stopped by the little shop in the atrium and picked up a meat pie for Lothor. It was the last one, and there were slim pickings beyond that, but she didn’t mind. 

The last hour had been worth it, even if she’d had to skip lunch.

 

* * *

 

Sansa whiled away the rest of her workday with mostly non-work related research and introspection. She did answer a few work inquiries, and discard a few memos, including one from Cersei reminding everyone of the strict dress code she’d recently implemented (Petyr had told Sansa that this was simply Cersei’s way of exerting what little control she had. In addition, it gave Cersei an excuse to bully some of the poorer people in the Ministry’s employ, which always put her in great spirits). Apparently now Cersei had decided that official reprimands would be in order for any violations, of which there would likely be countless, since the rules she’d set out were ridiculous.

It wouldn’t last, Sansa knew. Tywin would get angry about the waste — of time, of resources, and of focus, when they had much more important matters to take care of. He’d only allowed it thus far because he’d liked the idea of presenting a more unified staff to those visiting from Bulgaria, and from the wizarding schools Beauxbatons and Durmstrang later. Appearances were often key to selling success, and the smarter the staff looked as a whole, the better the Ministry looked. 

Tywin obviously hadn’t expected that the restrictions Cersei had set out would be so stringent. Or rather, he’d been so busy with everything else that he’d forgotten that if he gave his daughter a taste, she’d take the whole bottle. 

Of course Petyr could have told Tywin it was a bad idea, but then where would the fun be in that? Sansa knew Petyr had kept quiet just so the Minister would have one more problem to deal with. It made things easier for their plans to overthrow the Lannisters. Not only would Tywin have extra work, but Cersei’s antics would turn many formerly loyal employees against her, and against her father for allowing it.

Sansa had handed the memo to Lothor after she’d read it, who had scowled before crumpling it and tossing it into the trash. He was in violation of several of Cersei’s rules, but Sansa knew he’d never comply with them. Not unless Petyr ordered him to, and Petyr didn’t have any intentions towards doing so.  

She held back a laugh and returned to her book, but found she couldn’t concentrate. A face kept haunting her, try as she might to put it out of her mind. Sansa knew she didn’t have any reason to worry, that they’d only been talking about work matters, yet still it bothered her. So much, in fact, that she was contemplating asking Petyr not to have any more contact with Ros than was strictly necessary.

The moment Sansa had first laid eyes on Ros, that jealousy had sparked. Despite not knowing anything about the woman, Sansa had instinctively known that Ros had a connection to Petyr. The feeling was so strong that Sansa had had to fight to keep her composure, and had immediately demanded an explanation from Petyr, via their mental link.

She’d been right.

Like Olyvar, Ros worked for Petyr, in duties beyond that of the Ministry. She was one of his spies, found and shaped by him to do his bidding in all manner of tasks. At one point, they’d even been lovers, though it had been quite a few years since they’d last slept together, and neither had been in it for anything more than sex. Their relationship had ended when Petyr had ordered Ros to get close to Tywin, to share the Minister’s bed and his secrets, and she’d done as asked — for a price, of course. Petyr paid her well, and in turn received a wealth of information from her placement as both Tywin’s lover and his Senior Undersecretary. 

Petyr wasn’t anything other than professional with Ros, hadn’t been for years, and yet still it rankled Sansa every time she saw them together, or learned that they had been in contact. Sansa trusted Petyr, she really did, and besides that could even tell when or if he was lying (he’d taught her well), and he never had, concerning Ros. The woman was nothing to him, hadn’t ever been anything to him other than a piece to move at his leisure. But Sansa couldn’t help but worry, sometimes. Even as she knew that Petyr loved her more than anything. Even as she knew with every beat of his heart against her breast that he was hers.

Sometimes all the certainty in the world doesn’t stop you from worrying.

Although their little tryst during lunchtime had certainly helped allay those fears. For awhile, at least.

It didn’t help that Sansa’s nerves were already on edge, due to the news of Theon and Bertha. And that Petyr was too busy today to talk until after work. By the time she was free to leave the Ministry, her teeth had worried at her lip long enough to make it sore again, and Sansa had to use another spell to soothe it.

Thankfully, one of the many things she’d set about researching this summer was magical first aid. After her experience with Arya during their journey into the Chamber of Secrets last year, Sansa didn’t want to be caught unawares again. She’d learned how to mend broken bones and heal superficial surface wounds, and even about several healing herbs and how to use them. That, coupled with her knowledge of poison antidotes (gleaned from her time in Potions), gave her some peace of mind that she’d at least be somewhat prepared for any injuries that lay ahead in her future.

Sansa Apparated on to Petyr’s street, just outside the gate to his house, and let herself in through the little door set into it, locking it behind her with a spell as she’d become accustomed to. She found Petyr in the backyard, checking on the progress of several magical plants he grew there, for Potion ingredients. The ice castle replica of Winterfell still stood a few metres away, the sun glinting off its surface, creating a prism of rainbows. It looked as beautiful as the day she’d built it with Petyr, and she loved him for preserving it.

Loathe to go back inside, where the sun couldn’t find them, they chose instead to walk around the gardens while they talked. No one would find them there, with Muggle repelling charms set around the borders of his property, and few knowing the location of Petyr’s home. Those who did (namely Lothor, Olyvar, and Ros, as well as his house elves) were under strict instruction not to come by outside certain specified hours without explicit invitation. And even then, Petyr always sealed his home, and the grounds out back, with a password only she knew whenever she was meant to visit.

Petyr was nothing, if not careful. Any risks made were calculated, and he never acted without first considering all consequences. His mind went circles around everyone else’s, and Sansa loved the way listening to his thoughts often swept her away.

She loved too that, more and more, she could keep up with those thoughts, even anticipate his next moves.

“He has something to do with those disappearances, doesn’t he,” she said. It wasn’t necessary to speak Voldemort’s name aloud. They both knew who she was talking about.

“Yes, I think so,” Petyr agreed.

Her fingers tightened in his grasp, and she paused her gait, her gaze slipping far away. She could feel an enormous pressure, settling in her chest. What if Voldemort was making his move now? She wasn’t ready.

In truth, she wasn’t certain she’d ever be ready. “What does it mean?”

He squeezed her hand, bringing her back to herself. “That I don’t know. Not yet. But we’re making preparations, and we’ll be ready for whatever comes. If indeed something is coming.”

Sansa turned to face him, and his expression was open, unguarded. “I think this is just the beginning,” she said. “And —” she gulped  “— I’m starting to wonder if I can really do this. It’s one thing to plan, and quite another to go through with it. I feel like… like I’m two people. One who’s brave and somehow managed to kill Tom Riddle, and a Basilisk. Who looks forward to what we’ve planned and cannot wait to destroy the Lannisters, or to lay Voldemort and all of his followers to waste. And one who just wants to run away, and hide from it all. They’re warring with each other, these two halves of me, and I can never be certain which one will win.”

Petyr reached out to take her by the shoulders, expression firm. “The first, of course. Last year, when you thought you’d lost everything, you rose up and you fought for your loved ones, for yourself, and for what you wanted. And you’ll do it again. There’s strength in you, and I know you’re scared, hell I’m terrified too, anyone in their right mind would be, but I know you, and you won’t hide, and you won’t rest. Not while Voldemort’s still out there. I have faith in very little, it’s true, but I have faith in you. You can do this.”

“But what if I lose everything in the process,” she whispered. “I’ve already lost so much. To lose anyone else, it would break me.”

“Whether you act or not, he will come, and he will show no mercy. I will do whatever you wish of me, but Sansa, if you’re thinking of your friends, of what family you have left, their survival is perilous no matter which road you take. And as much as it pains me to say, more so, I think, if you choose to hide. He’ll not stop until he finds you. It’s a burden I would never have wished upon you, but you’re forced to bear it all the same. And if you must bear it, why not fight? Why not make it harder for him, even with little chance of success? He murdered your parents, and your brother, and turned your own uncle against them. And he’d do so much worse, given the opportunity. You love your family. Protect them.

“Avenge them.”

A spark flared in her belly, in her eyes, and she nodded, her momentary self doubt assuaged by his words. The corner of his mouth lifted and she could see that same spark, reflected in his grey-green eyes. He kissed her then, and she felt in it a promise, that he would help her, whatever the cost, and he’d be right there with her, through it all.

They resumed their walk, but remained quiet for a time, each absorbing the gravity of the coming year. If they weren’t careful, they’d suffocate under the weight, the pressure too much for two people alone. Thankfully, there were others that each of them could count on. Arya and the Targaryen-Starks. Margaery. Lothor and Olyvar, and yes, even Ros, if need be. And many others of lesser accountability. They weren’t without friends to divide and carry the burdens that lay before them.

When Sansa spoke again, she’d recalled Petyr’s earlier conversation with Ros, picking out a certain detail that had previously been clouded by jealousy. “The press has already gotten wind of the disappearances?”

He nodded. “It was only a matter of time, in truth. Rita Skeeter’s been snooping about more often than usual as of late. Were it only Bertha she might not have bothered to publish her findings, but coupled with Theon’s disappearance it made for a juicy bit of gossip and a first page headline. Of course, she’s using both to try and discredit Tywin. He’s gotten on her bad side for declining to give her exclusive interviews several years ago, when Lancel was killed and Jaime lost his hand and resigned his post as head Auror.”

Sansa smiled. “And certainly you had nothing to do with her increased interest, nor how quickly she obtained said information.”

Petyr smirked. “Certainly not. I would never do anything against Ministry interests.”

She laughed. “How fortunate it is then, that her scoop works decidedly in our favor. Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Indeed.”

Sansa laughed again, her mood brightened by their banter. She was quite proud of herself, for figuring it out. Truly, there were few things that gave her greater joy than discovering another facet of Petyr’s plans, wholly on her own, unprompted, and coming to the correct conclusion. He challenged her, like no one else did, and there was little else she loved more —  

Except for the reward that usually came after, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts appreciated :). Comments really do fuel my writing, so I would love to know what you think!


	4. Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and the Targaryen-Starks go to the Quidditch World Cup together.

The rest of the week dragged by, wholly unremarkable. No more news reached Sansa’s ears concerning the disappearances of Bertha Jorkins and Theon Greyjoy, and it was still up for debate whether the lack was to be considered good or bad. Sometimes no news at all meant that absolutely nothing was amiss, whereas other times it was merely the calm before the storm.

Sansa assumed it was the latter, and so she was grateful for the brief respite from learning anything new about either Bertha or Theon.

Work picked up somewhat, with the Quidditch World Cup only days away, and though Sansa had far less time than usual to devote to other pursuits, she still managed to finish all of the homework she’d been given that summer. This lightened the burden she always felt these days, at least a feather’s weight, which wasn’t much, but still released a micrium of tension from her shoulders, each lifting slightly higher in relief. She wouldn’t give up working with Petyr for anything, but the pressure of everything looming in her future was beginning to get to her.

If only she didn’t have Voldemort’s impending return weighing on her mind. That alone outweighed everything else by an exorbitant amount.

She wondered if there would truly ever come a day where the dark wizard wasn’t suffocating her thoughts. How wonderful it would be, to be free of him.

On Thursday she went with Petyr to Gringotts, where they settled a few last minute issues with the goblins in charge of dealing with the upcoming Quidditch game and the festivities involved. In truth, there wasn’t any official need for Sansa to accompany Petyr there, but he wanted her to get used to working with goblins. Theirs was an exceedingly clever species, mistrustful of wizardkind in general, and apt towards deceit when they found it necessary. Petyr was used to them, having worked with them for over half of his life, but she’d had little contact with goblins before this summer; previously she’d only seen them during rare trips to Gringotts, to visit the vault her parents had left her upon their deaths, and even then she’d barely interacted with them. They made her nervous, in truth. Their eyes were always on her, ever watchful, and cold. Calculating.

But it was essential that she learn to overcome any discomfort she felt around them, and to learn their ways and how best to negotiate with them. For goblins controlled the entire wealth of the wizarding world of Great Britain, and little could be accomplished without the coin to back it. Petyr could, of course, handle everything on his own, but then she wouldn’t be his partner in everything, and so she was determined to learn.

By the time Friday rolled around, Sansa was grateful for the break, mentally and physically exhausted from the stress and strain of work and all life’s other responsibilities. She chose to stay home, in her room at Winterfell, curled up with a good book, Lady at her side. Petyr was busy, staying late at his office in the Ministry, finalizing matters for the coming weekend for his job as Master of Coin, and so she couldn’t take refuge in his home, however much she wanted to. The rest of the Winterfell was in a raucous state, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and even Jon excited about going to the Cup tomorrow, and Rhaegar and Lyanna doing little to dispel their enthusiasm, just as caught up in anticipation as their children. But Sansa had never cared much for Quidditch, or any sport, really, and she needed time to rest and relax. So she was content to be cocooned in her room, a cleverly cast spell enveloping her in the silence she craved.

She was awoken bright and early by Arya bursting into her room, eyes wild, hair wilder still, a patchwork of black and red and green and white. Clearly Arya couldn’t make up her mind which team to support, so she’d colored her hair in support of both, using her Metamorphmagus abilities.

“Rise and shine!” Arya said cheerfully, trying to drag Sansa’s covers off, and yanking harder when Sansa’s fists curled in the fabric, resisting.

“What are you doing up so early?” Sansa grumbled, trying to burrow back under her blanket. This wasn’t exactly a usual occurrence — Arya normally didn’t wake up any earlier than she had to, and in the summers she was rarely out of bed before noon. 

It was much, much earlier than noon.

“Never went to bed,” Arya said brightly.

Well that certainly explained it.

“Well some of us actually like sleep, so go away,” Sansa told her cousin, her voice muffled through the blanket.

“Nope. Mum’s got breakfast all ready, and we’re going to Apparate to the campsite after,” Arya said.

“I’m still tired,” Sansa complained.

“Well too bad. You know, Dad already left with Bran and Rickon hours ago, to catch the Portkey. We lucked out, since we’re old enough to Apparate.” Arya paused. “‘Course, that luck only affects you, since I never went to bed. Too excited.”

Sansa groaned and sat up. “That makes one of us.”

Arya laughed. “Cheer up. At least you’ll see your boyfriend there.”

“Lower your voice!” Sansa hissed, her eyes darting to her open door, alarmed.

Arya laughed again. “Mum and Jon are downstairs, with Ygritte. No one can hear me. And anyway, it’s not like I said his name.”

“Still,” Sansa said crossly, getting to her feet. “I don’t want to risk it."

Arya shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you know it’s bound to come out sometime.”

“Yes, I know that,” Sansa said wearily, rummaging through her dresser. “But it’s better if no one knows until  **_after_ ** I graduate. Now leave me alone. I’m going to get dressed.”

“Don’t go back to sleep,” Arya warned her, before skipping out the door, her footsteps thundering down the hallway, and then the stairs.

Sansa rolled her eyes and wished she could. Her bed still looked so inviting….

But then his voice was in her mind, and he was greeting her good morning, and suddenly she couldn’t wait to leave the house.

 

* * *

 

Sansa and Arya Apparated with Lyanna, Jon, and Jon’s girlfriend Ygritte to the forest lining the campsite just outside the stadium where the Quidditch World Cup was being held. As they emerged from the trees, Sansa’s eyes widened at the burst of color, noise and activity before her, tents of every size, shape, and color sprawled out across the grass, and wizards and witches from all over the world mingling between them. They all followed Lyanna through the bustle, searching for their own campsite, where Rhaegar, Bran and Rickon were waiting for them. It was with great effort that Sansa managed to keep her eyes on her aunt rather than on her surroundings.

There was just so much to see!

Everywhere she looked, she saw evidence of magic; upon the tents, many of which were far beyond the scope of any tents Muggles considered fancy (their makings and opulence designated them more as houses, really, than anything else); upon the clothes of everyone she passed, from sweaters whose knitting patterns changed, to shirts that changed color; and in the air, remnants of spells fading into the sunshine, the crackle of magical fires, their embers swirling on the wind. It seemed that, despite the Ministry’s insistence that everyone attending do their best to keep magic at a minimum, so as not to attract unwanted attention and risk the exposition of their world, most people couldn’t resist showing off when they had the chance.

They found their own tent easily enough, though it was still quite difficult to get to it, due to the crowds surrounding it, all eager fans of Rhaegar and his music. Finally, a few sharp words from Lyanna and the crowd dispersed, many of the more ardent fans glowering at Lyanna as they left. Lyanna paid them no mind, kissing her husband hello, and greeting her youngest children. Rickon was slightly put out that he hadn’t been allowed to bring Shaggydog, his direwolf, but he cheered up when Arya reminded him that he was going to get to meet his (and her) favorite Quidditch player today.

“What!” said Ygritte. “You guys aren’t supporting Ireland?”

“Oh they are,” Jon assured her. “But Oberyn Martell is an amazing seeker.”

“That he is,” Rhaegar agreed. “Recruited when he hadn’t even left school yet, you know? Been breaking records ever since. Even over a decade later he’s still one of the best.”

“He’s  **_the_ ** best,” Arya insisted.

Bran snorted. “Arya’s got a crush on him,” he told Ygritte, then blushed, because he’d just remembered that he had a crush on Ygritte.

“I do not,” said Arya indignantly.

“That’s right,” said Sansa. “She likes Gendry now, Bran, remember?”

Bran and Rickon snickered and Arya scowled at Sansa. “I told you, we’re just friends,” Arya said, exasperated. “When will you give it up? I’m not like you, Sans. I don’t need a guy to be happy.”

Lyanna raised her eyebrows at Sansa. “What’s this? Are you seeing someone?” she asked Sansa, eyes lighting up.

Sansa shook her head hurriedly. “No!” she said, a little too quickly. She swallowed. Dammit, it wasn’t like her anymore, to get so easily flustered. “Arya just means that I want to find love. You know, someday. Hopefully sooner, rather than later.”

Lyanna nodded, but she still looked slightly suspicious as she turned to face Rickon, who’d begun tugging at her sleeve.

Inside Sansa’s mind, she could feel Petyr’s amusement. He must be listening to her, then. They’d found out that sometimes, if they concentrated, they could even listen to conversations the other was having, hearing the words that reached their lover’s ears and left their lover’s lips. 

‘Wish granted, I suppose,’ he said dryly.

‘Don’t distract me,’ she scolded him.

She could almost see his smirk then, the image appearing in her mind’s eye, but she ignored it. With so many people around, she couldn’t afford to just stand there staring off into space while she talked with Petyr in her mind. 

No matter how much she wanted to. 

They all settled around a bright green campfire that Rhaegar had conjured, many of the Targaryen-Starks talking over each other as their excitement mounted over the coming game. Sansa quickly grew bored of the constant talk of Quidditch, the only one that had little interest in the game, or any wizarding sport, really, but thankfully the arrival of Margaery and Fred spared her of having to listen to it for too much longer. 

“There you are,” Margaery said, neatly sidestepping a rather boisterous group of Bulgarian supporters and coming to stand by Sansa’s side, Fred on her heels, their hands linked. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Arya was supposed to tell you the campsite,” Sansa said, frowning as she turned to her cousin.

Arya pulled a face. “Sorry, Marge. I forgot.”

“Well, at least we found you guys,” said Fred goodnaturedly. “I’d call that a spot of good luck. Hopefully it’ll continue.”

“Why’s that?” Sansa asked curiously.

Margaery bit her lip. “Fred and George made a bet with Ludo Bagman.”

“The head of Magical Games and Sports?” asked Lyanna.

Fred nodded. “He’s taking bets from pretty much everyone. George and I could use the gold, so we pooled our money and bet on a sure thing.”

“On Ireland to win,” Jon said solemnly.

Margaery winced. “Not exactly.”

“How not exactly?” Arya asked, dodging Rickon, who was trying to stick his finger in her ear.

“We bet on Oberyn getting the snitch, and Ireland getting the Cup,” said Fred. “Oberyn’s unmatchable as a seeker, see, but Ireland’s got a stellar lineup as a whole. The rest of the Bulgarian team can’t hold a candle to them.”

“But the team that gets the snitch gets one hundred and fifty points,” Arya protested. “They nearly always win.”

“Exactly,” said Fred. “ **_Nearly_ ** . Not always.”

Margaery put her head in hands. “I tried to talk him out of it,” she said weakly.

Fred slung an arm around her shoulders. “Just you wait. We’ll be rich before the day is out,” he promised. “And George and I will finally have enough for the joke shop.”

Margaery looked pained when she lowered her hands, and Sansa couldn’t blame her. She knew very little of Quidditch, but that bet seemed far from a sure thing. Fred and George could lose everything in one fell swoop….

The conversation fell flat for a moment, signaling that not everyone was as optimistic as Fred, and then Rhaegar cleared his throat and conjured up two more chairs around the fire, inviting them to sit. Talk swiftly made its course again, focusing on, you guessed it, Quidditch, though it seemed everyone was taking care not to mention the game’s outcome, now that Fred and his brother had so much hinging on it. 

Gendry joined them not long after that, and they all ate a late lunch together, before Sansa left with Arya, Margaery, Fred and Gendry to explore the campsite for awhile. It was fun seeing wizards from all parts of the world and all walks of life all gathered together, swapping stories and goods and good cheer. Sansa spotted several of her classmates among the crowds, and several Ministry employees too, from Ron, Hermione, Harry and Ginny; to Draco Malfoy (who’d paled and immediately ducked out of sight) and the Greengrass sisters of Slytherin house; to Ludo Bagman, his money bag full and jingling merrily, and Bartemius Crouch, a preeminent employee in the Department of International Magical Cooperation (previously the head of the department, his place taken by Tyrion Lannister after the Lannisters took over the Ministry). 

They’d steered clear of both Ministry employees (Margaery unwilling to go near Ludo, due to Fred’s bet with him, and Sansa unwilling to talk with Crouch, who looked just as stern and sour faced as ever), though they did stop to chat with Hermione and the others. Ron and Ginny were siblings of Fred’s, and so of course Margaery knew them, and over the last year school year Sansa had grown closer to Hermione (and Ron and Harry too), and they’d all grown closer to Ginny (who was on the Gryffindor Quidditch team with Arya). The boys, Ginny and Arya all gabbed incessantly about the game while Sansa, Margaery and Hermione all refrained from rolling their eyes (rather unsuccessfully, at times), and they didn’t end up parting until the sky began to darken and Arya realized they’d better get back to their tent, as they didn’t have their tickets.

Margaery and Fred said goodbye, making their way back to her family’s tent, where her parents, older brother and grandmother were waiting for them. Meanwhile Gendry, who’d taken the last ticket Rhaegar had gotten from the Ministry (Arya had initially offered it to Margaery, but her own family had already gotten tickets for the event, along with one for Fred), followed Sansa and Arya as they struggled to find the campsite they’d left earlier.

It was harder to navigate through the campsites now, the dark the least of their impediments. It seemed that with the setting of the sun a whole new world had awoken, vendors Apparating into view every few feet, selling everything from food and drink to a large variety of merchandise from both teams. Sansa had trouble pulling Arya away from more than a few vendors as they wove through the congestion.

“We can buy stuff after we get our tickets,” Sansa reminded her.

Arya huffed, her expression forlorn as she left a miniature figurine of Oberyn Martell behind. “Yeah, if we ever find the damn tent,” she grumbled.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Because the world would end if you didn’t have a tiny Oberyn to kiss goodnight.”

Gendry turned slightly purple at this, his gaze fixing determinedly straight ahead as he dodged passerby. 

Arya scowled. “Keep making fun and I’ll start talking about Quidditch again.”

“Oh, like you’ve been doing all day?” Sansa asked lightly, brightening as she spotted Rhaegar’s silver hair a few meters away. She grabbed Arya’s arm, tugging her towards where she’d seen him. Arya resisted at first, but Sansa didn’t relent. “I think I see your dad!”

“There you are,” Lyanna said, sounding relieved as they rushed forward. “I was getting worried there, for a moment.”

“Come on, mum,” Rickon whined, his gaze following one of the vendors, expression longing.

“Hush now, we’ll be going in a second,” said Lyanna. Her gaze swept over everyone, her mouth moving in a silent count. “Alright, everyone’s present and accounted for. Stay close, and we’ll shop on our walk to the stadium.”

With that, they abandoned their tents, their campfire reduced to embers, striking out into the crowds. Jon and Ygritte were the first to get waylaid by a vendor’s wares, stopping to purchase green rosettes that shouted the names of the Ireland Quidditch team (like that wouldn’t get annoying fast). Then Arya found another vendor selling tiny Oberyn Martells and bought one, much to the very apparent displeasure of Gendry (which went wholly unnoticed by Arya). Bran and Rickon also picked up more than a few things from the vendors, all purchased by their parents, whose chagrin grew each time their youngest children spotted another item they just ‘had to have.’

Sansa initially didn’t purchase anything for herself, as she didn’t care about supporting either team, and certainly had no need of miniature figurines of any of the players (though she had to admit, Oberyn Martell was quite handsome, according the figure Arya had bought). But then they’d happened across a vendor selling something called omnioculars, which actually seemed pretty cool, and useful besides, and she’d wound up purchasing a pair along with Arya, who’d saved up her money just for this occasion. She’d seen something similar before, in Muggle shops — Petyr had called them binoculars, and had said that they were used for seeing things at a great distance, namely for activities such as bird watching, and the like. Only the omnioculars were like a souped up version of the Muggle invention, with the ability to replay moments seen through them, among other things. Sansa figured that they might come in handy later, even if she didn’t care to use them tonight.

Eventually they left the campsite behind, the surge of foot traffic around them carrying them forward. Sansa gaped at the enormous amphitheater the Ministry had erected specifically for the occasion, its steps going up, up, up. To her dismay, her aunt and uncle led them all up the steps with no signs of stopping each time they reached a landing. 

Apparently they were to be seated at the very top, practically choking on the clouds. Everyone but her seemed overjoyed by the prospect, the better to see the players zooming around on their brooms, but Sansa rather wished they didn’t have to be so high up. She wasn’t scared of heights exactly, but she much preferred being closer to the ground, if she could help it. Too many brushes with death could do that to a girl.

Finally, when she thought her legs might fall off (and this, after spending years traversing the staircases in Hogwarts!), they reached the top, filing into what Rhaegar declared to be the “top box.” A few were already inside, and Sansa’s stomach twisted as she spied not simply Tywin Lannister, as she’d expected, but the rest of the Lannister-Baratheon clan. She’d thought Cersei, Joffrey, and the others had declined to go, citing that they had better things to do than watch the popular wizarding sport. 

And yet here they were….

She was surrounded by a pack of lions.

Sensing her alarm, Petyr reached out to her thoughts. He wasn’t among those in the top box, at least not at the moment, but his presence in her mind was still of immense comfort. ‘They weren’t supposed to come tonight,’ he mused. ‘I wonder what made them change their minds?’

‘So you didn’t know?’ she asked.

‘If I had, I would have given you proper warning.’ A pause. ‘They’re in the top box then?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be there shortly. Busy dealing with something at the moment. Ludo Bagman’s hanging on a thin thread with the goblins. He’s promised them a big return after tonight’s game, that all his debts will be settled, but they’re not entirely placated. I don’t blame them. He’s said the same to quite a few others tonight. I’m trying to talk them out of slitting his throat, at least until after the game — he’s the commentator, after all.’

Sansa held back a smile, then forced herself to focus on the scene before her. Tywin had risen to his feet, Cersei at his side. Rhaegar was shaking his hand, and both were passing introductions all around. Joffrey was slumped in a seat next to his siblings, Tommen and Myrcella, arms crossed, lips turned downwards in a scowl as he glared out onto the field. He hadn’t noticed them yet, though Tommen and Myrcella smiled at Sansa from where they sat. 

“And this is Sansa Stark, my niece,” Rhaegar was saying.

Tywin’s gaze pierced through her, his expression shifting as he took in her name, and the lightning scar across her forehead. “Ah yes, The Wolf Who Lived. You’ve been working hard, I’m told. It’s a shame your internship with us will be ending soon. Indispensable, is the word I think Littlefinger used.”

Cersei’s lip curled, revealing wine stained teeth. “In the Goblin Liaison Office? I highly doubt that. They generally keep to themselves, I’m told. Not much to do really. We probably don’t even need that particular department.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “Actually, we’ve been very busy of late. What with the Cup, and the coming tournament and all. The money has to come from somewhere, after all.”

“Ah, but Cersei’s always been under the impression that I can make gold appear from thin air,” said Petyr, appearing at Sansa’s shoulder.

She startled, her breath hitching from being so close to him unexpectedly. He looked so good, the grey streaks in his hair silvering in the moonlight, mouth tilted in that achingly familiar smirk. 

“If only,” Tywin said. “Sadly, I think those goblins of yours put anti-replication charms on every coin they’ve wrought. Else none of us would have any lack of wealth.”

“Not that you’re in any such position anyway,” Petyr said, his tone absent of the irony in that statement.

Tywin dipped his head. “Indeed.”

Sansa wanted to laugh. Clearly Tywin was intent on keeping up the appearance that neither he nor the Ministry were deeply in debt. All for the Bulgarian Minister’s sake, she supposed. And of course Petyr was keeping up the charade solely for the benefit of keeping his job and remaining in the Minister’s good graces. But oh, she would have loved to see the look on the Lannisters’ faces as Petyr insinuated otherwise. 

One day, she hoped. One day soon. They would be the ruin of the Lannisters and all they held dear.

She really couldn’t wait for that day to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <333


	5. Alliances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr cunningly disrupts the Lannisters’ plans, gaining a new ally in the process.
> 
> Featuring an edit made by Quoyan_XI on here (quoyan_11 on tumblr)!

 

****

**_Petyr:_ **

So Cersei had changed her mind about attending tonight’s game….

Petyr doubted that Quidditch had drawn her, nor a night out with her family, though she did dote on her children when she could. No, she had to have some alternative agenda. Something she’d find worth being around all the screaming masses she usually abhorred.

After all, while she wanted everyone to love her, to worship her, she didn’t return those same sentiments. With Cersei, it was always a one way street, unless you happened to be her child.

Or her brother.

Twin brother, mind you. Cersei held no love for Tyrion. Only incestuous love for Jaime, her twin.

Petyr noticed that Jaime wasn’t in attendance tonight, though he’d always liked Quidditch, and had previously been slated to come. Perhaps his newfound disdain for his sister had extended to eschewing being in her presence whenever possible. Or perhaps his absence was by design of Cersei herself, or even the Minister.

Whatever the case, Petyr would find out soon enough. He had little interest in the game they were all meant to be watching tonight, and oh so many minds he could delve into to ferret out the truth of the matter. And Sansa, his sweetling, she could do the same, if she wished. She’d progressed enough in Legilimency that she could slip into Cersei’s mind, or that of Tommen or Myrcella’s, if she didn’t want to drown in narcissism and wine soaked musings. He knew, at least, that she’d never want to slip into Joffrey’s mind, but then there would be very little of value there anyway. The boy paid attention to little beyond that which concerned him, his intellect rather wanting, and his thoughts mainly twisted towards needless cruelty.

He sat beside the Bulgarian Minister, Doran Martell, who hadn’t risen to greet the Targaryen-Starks (or himself) due to a particularly bad case of gout that never seemed to clear up, likely due to the man’s penchant for liver, anchovies, shrimp, and other foods containing uric acid. Though, perhaps the man had a predisposition towards the condition. Whatever the case, Doran Martell wasn’t the most physically active of people, generally receiving assistance to transport from location to location and remaining seated once he arrived.

Despite this, Petyr rather liked the Bulgarian Minister. He was a man who weighed every word cautiously before he spoke, and Petyr well knew that much of went on inside Doran’s mind never left his lips. This more than anything had earned Petyr’s respect — in life and in politics it was never wise to lay all your cards out on the table, whether amongst allies or foes. And thinking before speaking, well that was an art unfortunately lost to many.

“Good evening,” said Doran. The Bulgarian Minister spoke not in English, but in Bulgarian.

Petyr dipped his head. “And to you,” he replied, also in Bulgarian. With preparations for the World Cup, he’d found it necessary to learn the language, as many he had dealt with over these last months hadn’t spoken a lick of English, creating a language barrier. Although the Bulgarian Minister wasn’t one of them — Petyr wondered why he’d chosen to speak in his native language, when so few present would understand him (namely his children, and his sister Elia. And Petyr, of course).

Tywin resumed his seat on Petyr’s other side. “Ah, you’ve learned Bulgarian then, have you Littlefinger?”

A spark of annoyance flashed through Petyr’s thoughts at the nickname, but he kept his expression measured. Controlled. “Yes. I found it facilitated negotiations considerably.”

“How fortunate then, for once, that we have you in our company,” Cersei purred, striding to take the seat on the Bulgarian Minister’s other side, which Elia Martell had just abandoned in order to talk with Rhaegar Targaryen, her youngest nephew by her side, each eager to meet the famous singer. “For otherwise the Minister and I would have no way to get properly acquainted.” She smiled a saccharine smile — its brilliance dimmed by the wine lingering on her teeth — as she focused on Doran. “Do translate for me, Littlefinger. Tell Doran what lovely children he has.”

Petyr’s mouth twitched, the only visible outward sign of his amusement as he turned to Doran. “This is why you’ve been pretending not to know English, hmm?”

Doran smiled at him, nodding before gifting Cersei with the same. Turning back to Petyr, he said, “I’ll not let the lions sink their claws into me.”

“He says thank you,” Petyr told Cersei. “And that your own children seem lovely as well.” He couldn’t help stressing the word ‘seem’ as he spoke. Just slightly. Myrcella and Tommen were in fact the very definition of lovely. Joffrey not so much. As far from lovely as one could get, actually.

Cersei didn’t catch the insinuation, however, her gaze immediately turning back to Doran as she simpered, “You’re too kind, Minister. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone has always spoken so highly of you.”

Doran’s face remained impassive at the uttered compliment, and there was a brief pause before Cersei turned to Petyr, her eyes narrowed, teeth gritted as she fought to keep her tone neutral. For even if Doran couldn’t understand what she was saying (at least from what she knew), he certainly could discern content from tone. “You’re supposed to translate, Littlefinger.”

Petyr feigned a look of sheepishness. “Oh, sorry. I had assumed you no longer had need of me after your initial exchange and simply stopped paying attention. Do repeat what you’ve just said.”

Cersei’s lips twisted downward, froze, then were forced back upwards in a rictus smile that rather gave the impression of a lion baring her teeth, fangs stained red from a fresh kill. She repeated what she had said, tone bordering on venomous. He hadn’t needed her to repeat what she’d said, but it was a nice little way to provoke her into revealing her true colors in front of the Bulgarian Minister — not that Doran hadn’t already sussed her out.

Petyr smiled back, then turned to Doran. “She has designs on becoming the next Mrs., then?” He knew Doran’s wife, Mellario, had left him about ten years prior.

Doran grimaced, then quickly turned his lips to a friendlier bent, remembering Cersei was watching him. “That seems to be the case. I imagine money is the leading factor in desiring such a match.”

That and a powerful family alliance. The Martells not only held the top position in the wizarding government in Bulgaria, but had strong ties to the Quidditch team (Doran’s brother, Oberyn, the team’s world renowned seeker) and the school in the country’s vicinity, Durmstrang. Oberyn in fact co-ran the school with his paramour, Ellaria Sand. And Elia was a teacher there, and a prominent figure in the Bulgarian Ministry, in tandem. In addition, Doran’s children were each rising stars themselves. Arianne was on the Quidditch team with Oberyn, and an Auror besides. And Quentyn was making headlines with strides in the field of arithmancy. Even his youngest, Trystane Martell, was known for his kindness and gentle rapport with magical creatures.

“The Minister is feeling a bit overwhelmed about all these compliments,” Petyr said to Cersei. “Perhaps let him breathe a bit, then try again later.”

This time he was rewarded with a scowl, which quickly turned on Elia as she returned to claim her seat by her brother. Cersei got to her feet and swept over to her children, saving face by busying herself with fussing over Tommen.

“Thank you,” Doran told Petyr.

“Oh, I didn’t do it simply for you,” Petyr assured him, still in the Bulgarian tongue.

And he hadn’t, but Doran need never know the extent of it. It was easy for Doran to tell, from their conversation, that Petyr didn’t particularly like Cersei. But though Petyr loathed being ordered around as a translator, he also had no will to see Cersei’s ‘charms’ win over the Bulgarian Minister. It was clear she held no real attraction to the man — Doran was of at least fifty years of age, his body that of someone much older than even that, perhaps double even. Years of inactivity had robbed him of the physique he should have had.

No, her designs on the Bulgarian Minister were wholly for selfish gain. Petyr well knew that Cersei (and her father) were getting desperate. The Ministry was broke. Their family was broke. They were barely holding it together, and their tenuous hold on what power they had was slipping. Aligning their house with the Martells would put the balance back in their favor, in terms of money, power, and overall popularity with the populace.

Since Petyr had no will to see years of hard work spent in bankrupting both the Lannisters and the Ministry undone in one fell swoop, he wasn’t about to help them right things again. No, he needed to keep both Tywin and the Ministry in the precarious position he’d brought them to. Then it would be all the easier to topple the regime they had built and rise to the position of power he’d coveted for so long.

Of course, since he’d met Sansa, he’d begun to shift his priorities somewhat. There was Voldemort to consider, of course, but more than that he’d also thought on setting her up to take the prime position of Minister of Magic (as The Wolf Who Lived, she’d certainly be well supported), while he remained her foremost adviser, and together they ruled the magical world of Great Britain. It was a thought, at least, but he doubted she’d go for it. She was ambitious, it was true, but she’d already spent enough time in the public eye from her fame as The Wolf Who Lived to develop a distaste for it. If so, he could certainly keep the position for himself, as he’d previously planned.

It was a shame they’d never had a ruling monarchy in the wizarding world. Then he and Sansa could rule side by side, for all of their lives. And their children after that. A dynasty to last the ages. He was opposed to monarchies in general, as those born into power rarely had the aptitude to rule, but if it were his family….

Their children would be well equipped for the task, he was sure of it. And as for generations beyond that, well they just needed to ensure that those set to rule wouldn’t marry anyone of lackluster intellect.

But he was getting ahead of himself, wasn’t he? Best remain on present matters. Time enough for the future when it presented itself.

At least the future that was at least several decades away yet. He did like to plan ahead, for every contingency.

There was also another little perk to helping the Bulgarian Minister fend off Cersei’s advances — Petyr had already begun to build trust between the two of them during preparations for the World Cup and the Triwizard Tournament, and this certainly helped to solidify it. Given time, having the Martells on his side could make for formidable allies. Aside from Doran and his siblings, children, and Oberyn's paramour, Oberyn also had several illegitimate daughters, known collectively as the Sand Snakes, who were known for their aggressive but overall effective tactics in law enforcement. They would certainly be a boon in the war Petyr knew was like to come, brought upon them by Voldemort’s imminent return.

As the Bulgarian Minister was now deep in conversation with his sister, and Tywin was engrossed in talks with Rhaegar Targaryen, Petyr turned his attention to Sansa. He reached out with his mind, preferring to keep their public interactions to a minimum, and found her slightly miffed that he hadn’t done so before.

‘I’ve been so bored,’ she complained, a pout audible, even in her thoughts.

‘My apologies, my love. I was attending to my duties as a Ministry employee, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,’ he returned, thoughts light, teasing.

‘What did the Bulgarian Minister want?’ she inquired, her curiosity piqued.

‘Were you paying attention to the conversation?’

A pause. ‘Yes. But you were mainly speaking in Bulgarian,’ she answered, hesitant. She knew what was coming.

‘Even so, I’m certain you’ve gleaned enough to get the general idea.’

A huff sounded from somewhere to his right and back, heard even above the hubbub of activity, and he knew Sansa’s sounds well enough to know that it had indeed been her. Petyr held back a smile, his eyes sweeping over the teeming masses of Quidditch fans in the stands below.

There was a brief silence (or rather, a break in their internal conversation, as she gathered her thoughts). Then — ‘Cersei seemed to be flirting with the Bulgarian Minister,’ she began, then added, ‘Rather unsuccessfully.’

‘Very good. And to what end might her attempts be?’ he prompted.

Another silence, this one longer. ‘She can’t think to marry him, can she? Are they really getting that desperate?’

‘It seems so. Thankfully Doran has little inclination for such a match. She’ll have to find some other man to prey upon.’

The top box was filling up now, the rows behind the first and second (where Petyr, the Lannisters, the Martells, and the Targaryen-Starks (and Sansa) had chosen to sit) jostling with people newly arrived. There was a bit of a commotion way in the back, possibly concerning the house elf he’d spotted there earlier, but Petyr paid it little mind, his focus settling on Ludo Bagman instead, former Quidditch player, current head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and commentator for tonight’s game.

Bagman’s round face was ruddy, breaths uneven beneath his bright yellow Wimborne Wasp Quidditch robes, his large stomach swelling the fabric to well past what it was normally meant to accommodate as he heaved. “Sorry,” he told Tywin, bustling over to stand between the Minister and the railing. “Got held up.” He adjusted his robes, smoothing them over his ample midsection as his breaths settled. “But I’m here now.”

“And not a moment too soon,” Tywin said sharply, nodding his head at the Quidditch field, where the referees were mounting their brooms.

“Right.” Bagman retrieved his wand, pointing the tip at his throat. “Sonorus.”

And with that, the game began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in updating! Hope you liked the chapter <333


	6. Unstoppable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa helps out a house elf in distress, then she and Petyr steal away during the game for a little rendezvous in his tent.
> 
> Featuring an edit by Quoyan_XI

                                                       

Sansa had been talking with Petyr about who the Lannisters might turn to next, in terms of seeking a marriage alliance, when the sounds of a house elf in distress reached her ears, and she broke off mid conversation, anxious to see what had happened. She wasn’t even certain it was indeed a house elf — she hadn’t seen one among the witches and wizards mingling in the top box, though admittedly she hadn’t exactly looked much at anyone that wasn’t her own family, that of the Minister of Magic, Petyr, or the Bulgarian Minister and his family. It was an oversight she was sure Petyr would chastise her for later (he was always telling her how important it was to be aware of her surroundings) but she pushed that aside for the moment.

Whoever it was, they sounded upset. And if it was a house elf, well she couldn’t just sit back and ignore the poor creature, like everyone else was. House elves had helped to make her life at the Eyrie more bearable, caring for her when her uncle had passed and her aunt had shown no motherly inclination towards her (and even before her Uncle Jon had died — he was a busy man and getting on in years, and overall not well equipped to care for an infant). And she was a very proud member of the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare at Hogwarts (commonly referred to as S.P.E.W., or just SPEW, though not in earshot of the club’s founding member, Hermione Granger).

“No!” the voice insisted, its unusually high pitch rising above the chatter. “I is saving this seat for my master!”

That did it. Sansa knew now that the speaker was indeed a house elf. She got to her feet, intent on fighting her way through the crowded top box to find the elf, but something snagged on her sleeve.

“Where are you going?” Arya asked, brow furrowed beneath her wildly colored hair.

Sansa shook her arm free of her cousin’s grip. “To go and help,” she said, nodding her head in the direction of the house elf’s increasingly squeaky cries of indignation.

“Sansa, the game’s about to start,” Arya said exasperatedly.

“So? You know I don’t care about Quidditch.” Sansa began making her way down the aisle, ignoring protests from Bran and Rickon that she was blocking their view.

To her surprise, Arya followed her, hauling Gendry in her wake. Sansa edged along the perimeter of the top box, rising up on tiptoes to see over some of the taller occupants who were standing rather than sitting — out of excitement for the game, she supposed. A few moments’ search and then she spotted the elf near the back, arguing with a disgruntled looking man who Sansa thought might be part of the Bulgarian Minister’s entourage. He certainly had a similar look, skin tanned, hair black as tar. Swarthy, she thought.

Sure enough, as she approached, she heard the man speaking in Bulgarian, only this time she doubted he was simply speaking the language to avoid an inconvenient and undesirable marriage contract. No, he didn’t know English, and this was proving a barrier to his conversation with the house elf over the apparently empty seat. He kept trying to sit, only to have the house elf dodge behind him, planting her tiny hands on his backside and pushing with all her might.

It might have been comical if it weren’t for how clearly distressed the little elf was. The poor thing kept stamping her little feet and grasping her enormous, batlike ears in her hands, twisting and pulling on them as she tried to reason with the man. Her tennis ball sized eyes were brimming with tears.

Sansa didn’t know Bulgarian, but Petyr did, and though she could hear Ludo Bagman’s voice, magically magnified, announcing the start of the game, she knew he wouldn’t be preoccupied with watching it. ‘Petyr, I’m going to need your help real quick.’

‘Oh?’

As she elbowed her way down the aisle, Arya and Gendry in tow, she explained the situation. Amusement colored his thoughts, but he agreed to help. Which she was grateful for, since she wasn’t sure how else she was going to persuade the man to find another seat.

She drew level with the elf and the man, who both turned to her, expressions equal parts beseeching and hopeful.

“Please, miss. This seat is taken! I is saving it for my master! Mr. Crouch said Winky must save him a seat, so I saves it for him,” the house elf said miserably.

The Bulgarian spoke as soon as the elf was finished, pointing emphatically at the empty seat. Sansa didn’t understand a single word, but Petyr quickly interpreted for her, then coached her on what to say. She stumbled over the words a bit, repeating each word after he’d said it, but when she’d finished the expression on the man’s face had changed, and he muttered what Petyr translated as a hurried apology to both her and the elf before shuffling away. The elf watched in wonderment as the man left, then turned her huge, shining eyes on Sansa.

She burst into tears. “I is never having the opportunity to meet The Wolf Who Lived before, but I knows an elf who has, and he says she is true and brave and he is right! Winky is so very pleased to meet you, miss! I is not knowing what else to say but thank you!”

Sansa smiled down at the little elf. “I’m happy to help.”

Behind her, Arya groaned. “What happened? I can’t see!”

Sansa turned, thinking that Arya was talking about the elf, but instead her cousin was craning her neck, trying to see the game over the heads of the people in front of her. Gendry was beside her, doing the same, but with less difficulty, as he was taller than Arya. “You can go back to your seats, you know,” Sansa said, amused. She wasn’t sure why Arya had followed her in the first place. Probably curious, she supposed.

“Yeah, okay,” Arya said vaguely, her eyes never leaving the game as she forced her way back along the aisle. Gendry followed her, though not without a curious glance Sansa’s way.

For a moment, Sansa wondered at the look, but then she reached out, touching Gendry’s mind, and gained clarity. Of course. She’d just spoken Bulgarian, albeit rather clumsily. He probably wondered where or when she’d learned it. Arya probably didn’t even care, or didn’t even notice, too intent on the game, her focus on the matter lost when she realized that it was just a house elf (she wasn’t a member of S.P.E.W., uncaring as to their plight, as she’d never really had much association with any before. Lyanna and Rhaegar didn’t employ house elves at Winterfell, preferring to clean up after themselves).

Sansa pushed it aside — she could explain that away easily enough, if he asked. After all, she was interning at the Ministry of Magic. And they’d had a lot more dealings with the Bulgarian Ministry as of late. It would be only natural that she’d pick up the language.

She turned back to the elf, who was gazing up at her, eyes shining with adoration. “I suppose Mr. Crouch is a bit late,” she said, nodding towards the empty seat. The game had already started, after all.

The elf’s face fell, then she nodded solemnly. “He is a very busy man, Mr. Crouch. But Winky is saving his seat for him. He can count on Winky, miss!” Her voice turned squeakier with every word she spoke, like the elf was nervous. But then, Sansa supposed she must be. People often were, when they first met her. As if she were worthy of being nervous about.

Sansa smiled kindly at the elf. “He sure can.” She glanced around, wondering if anyone else might be searching for a seat, necessitating her help again concerning the elf, but found everyone focused on the game, rooted in place. Everyone but her, that is. “Well, if you need help again, let me know, okay? I’m seated up front.” She pointed to show the elf, who smiled gratefully at her, before climbing back onto her own seat.

With that, Sansa made her way back to the seat she’d abandoned, hoping that the Bulgarian hadn’t taken it in her absence. More than a few people jostled her as she struggled through the aisles, and by the time she sat down again (in her thankfully empty seat) she was more than a little irritable. Everyone around her was lost to the Quidditch game, screaming and cheering and shaking their fists. Her ears hurt and she was tired of getting bumped into.

And all for some dumb sport she didn’t even care about.

‘Not enjoying the game?’ Petyr asked, slipping into her thoughts.

She smiled at that. ‘You know I’m not.’

‘All this work and spectacle, and to what end, really,’ he mused. ‘It’s simply a showcase of talent, and an excuse to scream and rave and lose money over poorly made bets. A pity we haven’t yet unleashed Muggle technology to the masses. Tonight would have been a gold mine.’

‘So you’re bemoaning a lost opportunity?’ Sansa couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that, though Petyr couldn’t see her, and those who could might think her odd.

‘No, simply pointing one out. And commiserating. Quidditch has never really held my interest.’

‘I’m certain you’ve found some way to pass the time.’

‘Indeed. But there are far pleasanter ways,’ he returned.

‘Oh? What did you have in mind?’

He answered not with words but with a memory of the two of them twined together, lost in the throes of ecstasy. Her cheeks heated and she closed her eyes, only opening them again when she’d forced their color back to normal, her expression neutral as she stared out at the game, eyes unseeing.

They waited until after halftime to meet, for she didn’t want to miss Rhaegar’s performance (Quidditch didn’t normally have a halftime, but they’d made an exception for the World Cup, wanting to make the game even more spectacular. Quidditch games didn’t run for a predetermined amount of time, so it was difficult to figure out the logistics, but eventually they’d just decided to call a timeout whenever it seemed most convenient). He was to debut a new song tonight, one inspired by her and Arya’s trip into the bowels of Hogwarts near the end of term. It was aptly titled: ‘Chamber of Secrets,’ though it honestly had little to do with their adventure.

Sansa cheered along with the Targaryen-Starks as Rhaegar strode out onto the field, strumming his guitar, voice magically magnified for all to hear as he sung, “My heart is a chamber of secrets, and nothing but your love holds the key….” On either side of him, veela and leprechauns danced to the music, the veela tossing their silvery hair, the leprechauns forming words and symbols in the air.

Both were mascots of the Quidditch teams of Bulgaria and Ireland, respectively, and had put on a little show before Rhaegar had joined them. The veela had danced enticingly, to the joy of practically every heterosexual man present (Sansa had been thrilled to see Petyr unaffected, his eyes on her instead, while nearly every other man, including the Minister of Magic himself, goggled at the veela and made fools of themselves in general. Gendry had also been quite taken with the veela, to which Arya vented her displeasure by hitting him on the arm and making rather cruel jokes, embarrassing the poor boy further). And the leprechauns had soared over the crowds, dropping heavy gold coins onto their heads. Gendry, Bran and Rickon, and even Arya had been jubilant about this, until Sansa and Lyanna had reminded them that leprechaun gold vanished after a few hours and their expressions briefly soured, before brightening again as Rhaegar began his show.

As soon as her uncle departed the field, Sansa excused herself, whispering to her aunt that she needed to find a restroom. As Sansa was of age and used to traveling on her own for her job at the Ministry, Lyanna didn’t object, simply telling her to hurry back. Petyr had left before halftime had even started, claiming that he had a matter of some urgency to attend to concerning the goblins, though of course Sansa knew otherwise. Instead he was waiting for her just outside of the stadium with a smirk and a wicked glint in his eyes, and she took his arm with a smirk of her own before they both vanished, Apparating to the tent he’d set up earlier that day.

Petyr’s tent was far more lavish than Lyanna and Rhaegar’s, but then Sansa wouldn’t have expected anything less. The outside was fairly conventional and nondescript, as he’d complied with Ministry regulations (they weren’t to showcase their magic, as shielding Muggles from happening upon the Cup had been difficult enough, and they didn’t want to do anything more to attract attention), but inside fully bespoke of his wealth and extravagant taste. Like all wizarding tents, it was far roomier than that of a Muggle tent, and had more in common with a small house than anything else. There was a fully equipped kitchen and bath, a luxurious sitting room, a master bed (with attached bath), and even an office, which looked the most lived in of everything, as was customary for him — he really did work too much.

They only made it as far as the sitting room, just a few steps inside in fact. Petyr sealed the tent’s entrance with a spell and then his lips were on hers and he was tugging at her jeans. They nearly stumbled into the wall of the tent as she kicked off her shoes, her jeans pooling around her ankles, but soon she was bare from the waist down and on her knees before him, his cock hard in her mouth.

Time was of the essence, so she didn’t linger long, much as she wanted to, instead using her tongue and lips just enough to steal a moan from his lips, and then another, just because she could.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned, his fingers tightening in her hair.

Sansa hummed in agreement and he gifted her with another moan, this one slightly strangled. His hand tugged at her hair and she released him slightly reluctantly, only placated when he bit at her bottom lip and slipped a hand between her thighs. She lifted her leg, resting her foot on the cushion of a nearby chair, giving him better access as he sank to his knees. Her eyes fluttered closed as he found her clit with his tongue, quickly bringing her to a gasping peak.

She’d barely come down from her high when he rose, his cock replacing his lips, stroking along her slit. Sansa bit into his shoulder as he filled her, prompting a growl, and then his hips were moving in that delicious rhythm and their pulses were beating as one, ever stronger, two hearts in each chest, one above the skin, and one below. And this, this was worth dealing with the Lannisters, and all of the noise and people and having to watch a game she cared nothing for.

Petyr always knew just how to angle and swivel his hips in a way that sent her trembling, her hands clawing up his back, her breaths coming out in short pants, his name both a curse and an exaltation from her lips.  And when she came she took him with her, and they lost all notion of time and space, of everything but the two of them.

Afterwards they returned to the top box, Sansa first, and Petyr fifteen minutes later. And no one was any the wiser. They were a secret, and it was better that way.

For the wizarding world would never see them coming, and when it did it would already be too late.

They’d be on top.

Unstoppable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in posting! Looking forward to your thoughts!
> 
> <333


	7. Morsmordre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the game has ended and everyone has gone to bed, chaos erupts.

The game ended about twenty minutes after Sansa returned to the top box, and only five after Petyr had returned (she envied him for that). Most surprisingly, the bet that Fred and George had made with Ludo Bagman wound up in their favor — Oberyn Martell had caught the snitch, despite the fact that doing so would end the game with Ireland still ahead. The color had drained from Bagman’s face as he’d announced Ireland as the winner, and he’d quickly excused himself before the members of the Irish Quidditch team arrived at the top box. Sansa didn’t think that boded all too well for Fred and George, but she hoped she was wrong.

Sadly, once the Cup was awarded, Sansa no longer had an excuse to remain in Petyr’s presence, as everyone dispersed in search of their own tents. At least she didn’t have to be around the Lannisters anymore — she was rather surprised Joffrey hadn’t tried anything, but she supposed even he wasn’t stupid enough to do something with Tywin and his mother breathing down his neck. Mostly he’d just sulked in his seat between his brother and his sister. Clearly going to the game hadn’t been his idea.

The campsite was a flurry of celebration (at least on the part of those that supported Ireland), and spirits were high as they gathered around a fire before Rhaegar and Lyanna’s tent and talked and ate and laughed. Margaery and Fred swung by, Fred jubilant — apparently Bagman  **_had_ ** fulfilled the terms of the bet. Sansa was glad for it — for years now Fred and George had been trying to scrape up the funds for a joke shop. They’d accrued enough capital to develop their merchandise, but still lacked the gold to rent property or even move out of the Burrow, settling instead for a mail order business, the chief of their customers current and former Hogwarts students. Now luck had bestowed upon them the means to make their dreams come true, and Sansa couldn’t think of anyone more deserving.

All in all smiles and laughter were prevalent that night but for one dark spot. Only Gendry had any misfortunes to dwell upon, having somehow misplaced his wand over the last few hours. With little money to his name, he was understandably upset, but it couldn’t be helped. Lyanna had even tried a summoning charm, to no avail.

“Someone must have taken it,” said Lyanna, shaking her head. “Else that should have worked.”

“I’ll bet it was Joffrey,” fumed Arya, savagely poking at the fire with stick she’d found on the ground. The fire spit in response, sparks swirling through the air.

Lyanna didn’t look convinced. “I don’t think so. As far as I saw, he never left his seat.”

“Who else then?” Arya argued. “No one! It has to be him.”

“What does it matter who took it?” said Gendry. “It’s as good as gone.” He groaned. “I’ll just have to get a new one…. Somehow.”

“If we know who took it — ” Arya began, faltering when Gendry shot her a withering look. She huffed. “Fine. Just trying to help, but whatever.”

“I’ll look into it,” Lyanna promised Gendry.

“Aurors don’t usually waste their time looking into lost belongings though, do they?” he asked wryly.

She laughed. “No. But for you I’ll make an exception.”

“We’ll help too,” Jon chipped in, nudging Ygritte.

“Hmm?” said Ygritte, lowering her omnioculars. She’d been rewatching the game through them, replaying her favorite moments. 

“Find Gendry’s wand,” Jon told her.

Ygritte frowned. “Huh?”

Jon sighed. “Never mind.”

Ygritte just shrugged and raised her omnioculars again, probably all set to ogle Oberyn some more. Sansa had slipped into her mind earlier, purely out of curiosity, but had quickly retreated, finding out rather more than she’d bargained for. Poor Jon. He certainly wouldn’t be in Ygritte’s fantasies tonight….

It was well after midnight before the celebrations finally began to die down, only embers left, no more wind to fan the flames. Sansa crawled into the bunk underneath Arya’s and closed her eyes, briefly talking with Petyr before she drifted off, her dreams full of house elves and leprechaun gold, of lions and vipers and a golden snitch that always lingered just out of reach.

When she awoke again, any remnants of her dreams were shattered with screams, and clouded with the smoke quickly filling her lungs.

 

* * *

 

“What’s going on?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Should we do something?”

“Get your jackets and your shoes on,” Lyanna ordered, grabbing hold of Rickon’s hand, and then Bran’s. “And grab your wands. We need to go. Now.”

Sansa quickly did as asked, shrugging on a jacket over her pajamas and shoving her feet into her shoes. Holding her wand tightly in one hand, she shuffled over to join the others, reaching out to Petyr in her mind as Rhaegar did a quick head count.

‘Get to the forest, sweetling. Stay close with your family. I’ll explain later.’

‘But are you alright?’ She needed to know. Had to know. 

‘I’m fine. But things are quickly getting out of hand. I need to know you’re safe.’

‘You keep me updated, okay? Stay with me.’ Else she’d be sick with worry.

‘I will. Hurry, my love.’

Lyanna handed off Bran and Rickon into Rhaegar’s care, then left with Jon and Ygritte to help sort out whatever was going on, their expertise as Aurors needed. Together with Arya and Gendry, Sansa followed Rhaegar through the teeming mass of frightened witches and wizards, towards the edge of the forest. The air was thick with smoke — some of the tents had caught fire. Others were trampled in the mass flight to the trees. Sansa gripped Arya’s hand, her wand held firmly in the other as they dodged around people and debris. But the crowds were so thick, the air a clouded haze, and despite all of their efforts they lost sight of Rhaegar in his haste to get his youngest kids to safety.

“Shit!” Arya swore, gaining a dirty look from a gnarled old witch hobbling nearby. Arya just rolled her eyes, standing on her tiptoes to try and see Rhaegar through the thicket of people.

“We need to keep moving,” Sansa reminded her, trying to urge her onwards. Not far from where they stood, Sansa saw Winky the house elf. Oddly, it looked as if the elf was straining to get away from something, fighting against some invisible force. 

“But — ”

“They’re going to the forest,” said Gendry. “We’ll meet them there.”

Arya sighed, but began to move again, steps quicker now that she wasn’t so focused on trying to stay close to her father. They slowed only when they reached the cover of the trees, and Sansa reached out to Petyr again, craving reassurance. She didn’t like not knowing what was going on, and if he was safe or not. It was bad enough she had no idea if Margaery had made it out okay. But he only could spare a moment to assure her that he was fine before he retreated again.

Whatever was going on, it was bad.

They stumbled through the forest, only their wands lighting their way. Gendry stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked at the occasional rock, his mouth tight. They’d left the crowds behind, and Sansa wasn’t certain if that was a good thing or not. Had they all Disapparated? Or had they gathered somewhere else? 

There was a rustling nearby, and Sansa froze, her eyes widening as they met Arya’s. Gendry turned his head, searching for the source, and then — 

“Morsmordre!”

A flash of green light shot through the trees, a glittering skull taking shape in the sky, its tongue a serpent slithering from its jaws. Sansa gasped, forgetting that she should be quiet, that whomever had conjured Voldemort’s mark must still be nearby.

That they would hear her.

She grabbed Arya’s hand, thinking maybe they should try and run for it, or Disapparate, anything but stay here, but before she could say or do anything the woods erupted with the crack and pop of multiple Apparitions and a chorus of stunning spells. 

“Stupefy!”

Crying out, Sansa dove for the ground, Arya and Gendry following suit, all of them narrowly missing the jets of red light. Her heart screamed in her ears, above even the shouts of confusion rocketing around the forest, and then someone bellowed “Stop!”

His voice was magically magnified well above its usual volume, and yet it was him, clear as day. Her heart automatically swelled in response, its beats calmer. “They’re not who we’re looking for,” Petyr continued, his voice lowering as the others he’d come with quieted.

“How do you know?” someone demanded.

“They’re some of my students at Hogwarts,” Petyr said dryly. “One of which is The Wolf Who Lived.”

“Sansa? Arya! Oh gods, lower your wands!” Lyanna cried out, rushing forward as Sansa, Arya and Gendry gingerly raised their heads. Lyanna pulled Arya into a rough hug, then Sansa too, her eyes raking over each of them and Gendry, anxiously making sure they weren’t unharmed. “You’re okay?”

“We’re fine,” Arya insisted, pulling away as her mother tried to hug her again. “Really.”

“But — ”

“Enough.” Tywin’s voice was deadly cold. “Hogwarts students you may be, but you’re standing exactly where we saw that mark cast in the sky.”

Lyanna shook her head. “You don’t honestly think they had anything to do with it,” she said disbelievingly.

“Certainly not,” Petyr interjected. “The Minister is simply pointing out that perhaps, due to their close proximity, they might have seen something.” His eyes found Sansa’s as he spoke, urging her to speak. He already knew she’d seen nothing, but it was important that she take the initiative regardless.

She lifted her chin. “None of us saw anything. We were just trying to find safety in the trees, like everyone else. All I can tell you is that I heard the incantation before the Dark Mark appeared in the sky.”

“And the speaker’s voice?” he prompted.

“Male.”

There was a murmur amongst those gathered. Arthur Weasley mopped at his face, his skin pale as he glanced back up at the skull still glittering in the sky. It had faded slightly, but its leer was still menacing. That mark had once been a great source of dread amongst the wizarding community. Death Eaters had often left the dark mark behind after committing murder, as a kind of calling card, a warning and a taunt to those who’d find their loved ones dead beneath it. 

Sansa’s throat tightened. Had someone been murdered tonight, then? Who? How?

Why?

“They’ve likely Disapparated by now,” Arthur said, squinting through the trees.

“Perhaps not,” said Petyr. “One of those stunning spells might have hit their mark.”

Tywin nodded. “We should canvas the area then — ” 

“Where did the voice come from?” Mr. Crouch demanded suddenly, cutting off the Minister mid sentence and stalking towards Sansa. 

Sansa took a few steps back, startled. “Over there, I think,” she said, pointing quickly to where she thought she remembered hearing it. 

Mr. Crouch spun on the spot and walked briskly in the direction she’d indicated without another word. A minute dragged by during which even Arya was silent, and then Mr. Crouch returned and Sansa’s stomach dropped.

He was holding the house elf she’d met earlier that night. The one who’d said she was saving a seat for Mr. Crouch.

It was Winky.

“No!” she said, speaking before she could think better of it. All eyes turned towards her, surprised.

“She’s alright,” Arthur assured her as Mr. Crouch lowered Winky to the ground. The elf was only unconscious, her little chest rising and falling with each breath.

But Sansa shook her head. “It can’t have been her,” she insisted. It didn’t make sense. “The voice I heard was male.”

“She’d have needed a wand, too,” Petyr said.

“House elves have their own magic,” Cersei objected.

“Yes, but that particular spell takes an incantation, unlike the magic house elves wield,” Petyr explained, his mouth twitching just slightly as he held back his amusement at the woman’s ignorance. Sansa might have felt like laughing if it weren’t for their current situation.

“She had a wand,” Mr. Crouch said stiffly, his mouth twisted in disgust as he stared down at Winky.

“What?” Tywin asked sharply.

Mr. Crouch retrieved a wand from his crisply pressed suit and thrust it towards the Minister. Before Tywin could take it, however, Gendry made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “That’s mine,” he choked out.

“Yours?” Cersei’s eyes gleamed in sudden recognition, though Sansa wasn’t sure how she might have known Gendry. “Well, isn’t that a peach. A Muggleborn Death Eater.”

Gendry recoiled. “What? I didn’t cast that mark!”

Cersei raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t you?”

“We don’t even know if that’s the wand that cast the spell,” Lyanna protested, putting a hand protectively on Gendry’s shoulder.

“Easily remedied,” Petyr said, taking the wand from Mr. Crouch. He placed the tip of his wand against Gendry’s. “Priori Incantatem.”

The ghost of the Dark Mark whispered from the end of Gendry’s wand, sealing its fate. Cersei’s eyes lit up, triumphant. “As I was saying — ” 

“It wasn’t Gendry!” Arya exploded, cutting Cersei off. “He was with us! He lost his wand earlier, remember?” This last bit was directed at Lyanna, her voice turning pleading.

Lyanna nodded slowly. “We think he lost it sometime during the match.”

Arya pointed at Winky. “And that house elf was in the top box, too!”

Sansa glared at her cousin. “It wasn’t Winky!” How could anyone honestly think it was her?

“And it wasn’t Gendry!” Arya shot back.

“I didn’t say it was!”

“Silence!” Tywin looked near the end of his patience. “We can solve this easily enough. Revive her,” he spat at Petyr, jerking his head towards Winky’s prone form.

Petyr knelt down next to the elf, his expression neutral as he placed the tip of his wand against Winky’s chest. “Rennervate.” 

Winky’s huge brown eyes fluttered open and she sat up, trembling as she took in the stares of everyone around her. Petyr stood up again and backed away as Tywin stepped closer, scowling down at Winky with distaste. “You’ve been found in possession of a wand, elf. Were you not aware of the restrictions that forbid anyone but that of a witch or wizard to wield one?”

“I….” Winky gulped and shook her head, blinking back tears. 

“Someone cast the Dark Mark tonight,” Tywin continued. “And this wand, the very one you were found with, has been proven to have cast it.”

Winky’s eyes widened. “I… I is finding it on the ground!” she stammered. 

“Then you did not cast the Dark Mark?” Tywin pressed.

Tears trailed down her cheeks and she shook her head again emphatically. “I is not knowing how!”

“And did you happen to see who did?” Tywin’s voice was unsympathetic and sharp, only concerned with getting to the heart of the matter and nothing else.

Winky buried her face in her hands and shook her head a third time, her large, batlike ears flapping. Tywin turned back to Mr. Crouch and the others, looking grim. “Canvas the area. Make sure we haven’t missed anything. Contact me when you have better news to report.” With that he Disapparated, leaving his employees to sort out the matters he’d deemed unnecessary to attend to himself.

Cersei looked taken aback at the sudden departure, but didn’t linger either, apparently deciding she’d had enough fun bullying people for the night. In their absence the atmosphere visibly relaxed, then spiked again as Mr. Crouch glared down at Winky. 

“You’ve disobeyed me,” he said quietly. Winky began to sob, her whole body shaking. “I’ll not have such a house elf under my employ. This means clothes.”

“No!” Winky shrieked, throwing herself at his feet. “No, master please! I is a good house elf!”

But her cries fell on deaf ears and Mr. Crouch walked away, heedless of her sobbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No edit from quoyan today, but there might be one for the new chapter of Heart and Soul, to be posted next Saturday!
> 
> Hope you liked the chapter - as always, comments and kudos are much appreciated <333


	8. Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa talks with Petyr about what happened. An unexpected loss.
> 
> featuring an edit by Quoyan_XI (@quoyan11 on tumblr)

Later that night, after reuniting with the rest of the Targaryen-Starks at their tent and receiving word from Margaery via owl post that she and the rest of her family were alright (as well as the entirety of the Weasleys), Sansa curled up in her bunk and reached out to Petyr. She still had no clue what had happened earlier, to drive so many from the campsite. Lyanna and Rhaegar hadn’t wanted to talk about it in front of Bran and Rickon, and though Arya had fought hard for answers she’d eventually relented in favor of sleep and promises to talk tomorrow morning. 

In addition, Sansa desperately wanted to talk about the reappearance of the Dark Mark after so many years, and what it might mean. She didn’t for a second think Winky had had anything to do with it, in possession of Gendry’s wand or not (and she was angry at Mr. Crouch for dismissing the poor elf — although perhaps Winky might be better off, from the way Sansa had seen him treat her today). So the fact remained that someone had cast it, but for what purpose she couldn’t ascertain. Was it simply a prank? Or was it a sign of something darker brewing, something she’d been dreading ever since she’d had confirmation that Voldemort was still alive, biding his time before he struck. She needed more information, and until she had it she’d never get to sleep.

And so she waited to talk to the one person who she knew she could count on. Petyr likely didn’t have all the answers, not yet, but certainly he knew something. Though whether what he knew would assuage her fears or only strengthen them remained to be seen.

He’d shut her out at present, clearly needing to keep a clear head for whatever he was doing. A pang of hurt sliced through her when she realized this, like it always did when he pushed her away. Even though she knew it was temporary, that he’d let her in again soon enough.

The wait was agonizing, but finally,  **_finally_ ** their minds met again.

‘You’re still awake?’ He sounded tired. Exhausted, even.

‘Of course.’ She didn’t verbalize anything more (well, so to speak, anyway) but he sensed the color of her thoughts anyway.

‘I’ve just returned from helping canvass the forest, among other things. A rather futile exercise, if you ask me. Had the mark denoted a body it shouldn’t have been far. And most people I encountered were simply stragglers who had taken refuge in the forest. And even if they weren’t, there’s little way to tell otherwise. Short of questioning everyone using Veritaserum.’

‘Or having a look into their minds.’

Petyr’s thoughts turned wry. ‘Except I was the only one in the search party with such capabilities. I did look, but found nothing of use. Whoever it was likely Disapparated immediately after, if they had a lick of sense. Which, it seems they did.’

‘What about Winky? Did you search her mind?’ Surely he’d thought to see if the house elf found with Gendry’s wand knew anything.

‘No. House elves' minds are naturally resistant to Legilimency, so that their owners may be better assured their secrets are kept safe. Their minds are only open to their owners, or to those they trust.’

‘She's newly freed, though,’ Sansa mused.

‘I did think of that, but she was in hysterics and I had to patrol the area. It's a lead I'll follow later.’

‘So you don’t have any idea who it was?’ Sansa’s heart sank.

‘No, but I can hazard a guess as to why. After causing that little disturbance at the campsite, one of the Death Eaters probably thought they’d induce a little extra panic, that’s all.’

Sansa’s eyes flew open, staring at the wooden bunk above her. ‘What?’

‘Didn’t you see it?’ 

‘No — I didn’t see anything.’

She felt a tug, and then she was pulled into memory — Petyr’s memory. Cloaked Death Eaters in silver masks held their wands aloft, directing the bodies of four people hovering in the night darkened sky. A thin man, a woman in a nightgown, and two children, all being controlled like marionettes, the youngest child spinning like a top, unconscious. As Sansa watched, the woman was turned upside down, her gown falling over her eyes, revealing voluminous drawers.

The memory ejected her and Sansa felt her back against her bunk’s mattress once more, her stomach roiling in disgust. ‘Who were they? Are they okay?’

‘A family of Muggles. They live near the property, even helped with directing people to their campsites and the like, earlier today. They’re okay, I suppose. Or will be, so long as their memory modification keeps. They’re in good hands — Arthur Weasley saw to it, and we’ve got Aurors guarding them until everyone’s gone tomorrow morning.’

‘Why?’ She didn’t need to elaborate. Petyr knew what she was asking.

‘It’s sport for them, sweetling. Toying with Muggles was one of their favorite pastimes, back at the height of Voldemort’s power. That and I think they wanted to let everyone know that they’re still among us, despite our efforts to send them all to Azkaban.’

‘So you don’t think….’ Sansa hesitated, but she didn’t need to finish the thought.

‘I don’t think it was anything more than a bit of fun, no. But I’ll keep my eye out. We won’t go into this unprepared.’ 

The connection between their minds flickered, Sansa’s grip on consciousness slipping. ‘Goodnight, my love.’

‘Goodnight.’

 

* * *

 

They left early the next morning, Rhaegar hustling Rickon and Bran over to where the portkeys were waiting to be divvied out, and Sansa and the rest Apparating back to Winterfell to meet them. Lyanna, Jon and Ygritte left almost immediately for the Ministry, needed for damage control, and Gendry left soon after, heading for the job he held in the Muggle district where he lived with his mother. Arya tried pestering her father for answers, but he had his hands full with Bran and Rickon, so Sansa put her out of her misery and told her what she knew.

Naturally, Arya was completely disgusted, and more than a little riled up over what had happened to that poor Muggle family. They spent the whole of the day practicing dueling, and Sansa felt better for the preparation, confident at least that if something  **_was_ ** coming, she’d be fairly well equipped to handle it.

When the weekend ended, Sansa found herself swamped at the Ministry, even the Goblin Liaison Office taking a hit after the fiasco at the Cup. Chiefly among their concerns were squabbles between the goblins and vendors over debts not paid, or in discrepancies between costs and production and sales, for those that had been lent capital. But there were also a few gambling debts that had skyrocketed upon the game’s outcome, including that of Ludo Bagman’s. Sansa wasn’t particularly motivated to help with Bagman, considering she’d gotten word yesterday from Margaery that he’d paid Fred and George in leprechaun gold, and therefore still owed them a considerable sum. Let the bastard suffer. The twins would never get their gold even if he had a windfall.

Petyr was so busy that week that they even had to forego their usual lessons on Tuesday and Thursday, making her mood plummet even further. They barely even got a chance to talk briefly in their minds, let alone do anything else. Sansa was angry that Voldemort and his stupid Death Eaters still managed to make her life more difficult, even after so many years, and almost found herself wishing Voldemort would just hurry up and come back so she could deal with him once and for all and be done with it — before remembering herself and fervently wishing the opposite, that he’d stay dormant until long after she was dead and gone.

Things didn’t settle down for another two weeks, and then, just when they’d regained their normalcy and Sansa felt she could breathe again, Petyr reached out to her with news. Her Aunt Lysa and cousin Robin were dead, both victims to the magic her little cousin had never been able to control.

‘According to the portraits, it happened early this morning. Robin has been even more intractable as of late, and when Lysa couldn’t give him what he wanted, he lost control. It was quick, I think.’

An ache settled deep in her chest. She’d never liked her aunt. Nor Robin, in truth. Lysa had never been all too kind to her, resentful even, more often than not, and neglectful at best. And Robin was a spoiled little boy whose unstable mother had wrought an unstable boy. He’d always been prone to fits, his magic unpredictable. In part, that was why he’d been kept at home, though he was old enough to attend Hogwarts. But it was more than that — Sansa had always thought Robin’s magic might have flourished better if his mother wasn’t so inconsistent in rearing him. Lysa had made him both admire and fear his magic, alternately babying him and insisting that he shouldn’t use it, or he’d get hurt, and praising him endlessly as the most talented little boy in the world. Over the years his magic had grown volatile as he kept holding it in, only letting it out when he was upset or angry.

And now his temper had reached its peak, and they were both dead.

She mourned for Robin, for the boy he might have been had he had a different mother. Had his father not perished. 

She didn’t mourn Lysa. 

Not long after Petyr had broken the news, her Aunt Lyanna visited her in the Goblin Liaison Office, her face drawn. “Good morning, Lothor. May I borrow my niece?”

Lothor just grunted, and Sansa followed her aunt out into the hall, both of them silent as Lyanna walked her back to her office in Auror headquarters. They both took a seat on the couch set along one wall, and Sansa did her best to maintain a visage of idle curiosity so as not to betray that she already knew.

Lyanna grimaced. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.” Sansa nodded, prompting her to continue, drawing her brows together in concern. “I received word from the healers of St. Mungo’s about a half hour ago that they were summoned to the Eyrie by request of the house elves employed there.” Lyanna hesitated, reaching out to cover Sansa’s hand with her own. “There was an accident. Robin lost control, and Lysa….” Lyanna shook her head. “There was nothing they could do, Sansa. I’m sorry.”

Sansa stared down at her lap, Lyanna’s hand tightening around hers. Summoning up the grief that had settled slightly from before, she let out a shaky breath. “They’re dead? Both of them?”

“Yes.” Lyanna squeezed her hand.

Swallowing, Sansa nodded, her lips pressed in a thin line. With her aunt so solemn next to her she was finding it difficult not to cry. She held no love for Lysa, but Lysa  **_had_ ** been one of her last connections to her mother. And Robin, well she’d have wished a far better fate for him, that’s for sure. 

“As Edmure’s in Azkaban, and the rest of the Tullys are gone, I’ve taken over the arrangements for the funeral, and that of the estate, so you don’t have to trouble yourself with either. The boy who’s inherited the Eyrie, a distant relation of Jon Arryn’s, passed the duties along to me quite eagerly. You can help, if you’d like. It’s up to you.”

Sansa shook her head. She had quite enough to deal with without planning a funeral and sorting through Lysa and Robin’s belongings. “No. But thank you for taking charge of both. I appreciate it.”

Lyanna smiled at her. “You’re as good as my daughter, you know that. I’m happy to help.” She paused. “It shouldn’t be too much work. Whatever Harrold Hardyng doesn’t want, I’ll sell, I suppose…. Unless you’d care to keep anything?” Sansa shook her head again. “He’s offered to let me keep whatever profits come of it, for my trouble. I thought I’d give the money to you. Originally Jon had you in the will, you know, before Lysa changed it. This would just be remedying that.”

Closing her eyes, Sansa considered this. It all seemed like a lot of hassle, in truth. Lyanna clearly didn’t know how much Lysa and Robin had accrued over the years. Selling off all of the junk this Harrold Hardyng didn’t want was bound to be a headache. Robin’s toys alone would take forever to sort through. She opened her eyes again, finding Lyanna’s. “How about we just donate everything? The toys to the children’s section of St. Mungo’s. Or perhaps to some Muggle orphanages, the non magical ones, I mean. And the clothes too. Even Lysa’s could maybe go to a Muggle women’s shelter, or something.” Yes, that would be better. Lysa had never been generous in life, but she could be in death. And Sansa didn’t want that money, or for Lyanna to have to deal with selling everything. She and Petyr had enough capital between them, and far more on the way. They didn’t need Lysa’s ghost hanging over them.

Lyanna nodded thoughtfully. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. I’ll see what I can do.” She squeezed Sansa’s hand again. “Are you okay?”

“It’s a shock, but I suppose it wasn’t wholly unexpected. It always seemed like it was just a matter of time before something happened. I just wish it hadn’t.” And it was true. As little as Sansa cared for Lysa, she’d never wished this. She had even stayed Petyr’s hand last year, when Lysa had discovered their secret.

Lyanna patted her hand. “I don’t know what lies beyond the veil, but I have to think they’re in a better place.”

Perhaps with her mother and father. And baby Robb, who’d never grow up. “I hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the chapter! I've had this planned for awhile now, and while Lysa is gone, there's still some stuff left to come out about her and her past so you haven't heard the last of her.
> 
> Also, if you didn't catch it already, Robin was an Obscurial. If you haven't read the books or seen Fantastic Beasts don't read ahead ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------SPOILER WARNING: Just like Ariana Dumbledore and Credence. In fact how Robin and Lysa died is basically similar to what happened when Dumbledore's mother died, and then later Ariana died.


	9. Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral. And back to Hogwarts.
> 
> Featuring an edit by Quoyan_XI (@quoyan11 on tumblr)

The rest of the summer blurred by, lost to preparation and every stolen moment Sansa and Petyr could manage before school resumed. Her last day of work at the Ministry came and went, goodbyes and well wishes tendered by Lothor Brune, Olyvar, and even Ros, in passing, though Sansa rather wished she’d never met the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. It was possible she might resume her job at the Goblin Liaison Office next summer, after school let out, but she still left the Ministry behind as if she’d never set foot in it again — with the threat of Voldemort looming in her future, she never could plan it with much certainty.

All she knew was that Petyr would be by her side, and that they would do their best to meet everything as it came. There was little else she could hope for, with so much hanging in the balance. 

In the meantime, they’d do what they could to wreak a little havoc of their own. They might not end up surviving the coming war, but they’d certainly do their best to take down the Lannisters and anyone else who tried to stand in their way.

A funeral had been arranged for Lysa and Robin, with no one outside of the Targaryen-Starks and Sansa herself in attendance, except for Harrold Hardyng and the witch who’d raised him, Anya Waynewood. It was a dismal affair, but mercifully brief, as no one other than Lyanna made any speeches on behalf of the dead, though it was clear Anya Waynewood had expected Harrold to step up and say a few words. Both Lysa and Robin were interred in the family plot at the Eyrie, right beside Jon Arryn, and Sansa stopped by his grave to say goodbye before she left the Eyrie behind for good. He’d been good to her, and for that she’d always be grateful.

Afterwards she’d taken solace in Petyr’s arms, the ache in her heart more constrictive than usual, with two more family members dead and buried, two less living reminders that her mother had once walked this earth. 

The morning of September 1st wasn’t greeted with her usual exuberance. Before, Sansa had always looked forward to school, for the escape it gave her from the Eyrie. Now it just put one more barrier between her and Petyr. It would be far harder for them to find time together while they were both at Hogwarts, with her still being a student, and him as a professor. Even with him as her head of house, she couldn’t spend the night in his chambers, for the other girls in the Slytherin dormitory would certainly notice her absence.

At least it would be easier this year than the one before. Their minds were connected, always, and though they couldn’t be together physically as often as they’d like, they could still talk whenever they found a spare moment.

And it wasn’t like she didn’t have stuff to look forward to. Her seventh year promised to be quite an exciting year, what with the Triwizard Tournament and Petyr’s plans to introduce Muggle technology to the students. She would play a big part in the latter, and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t excited about the prospect.

This year Rhaegar drove Sansa and Arya to King’s Cross, along with their direwolves and trunks, Rickon and Bran tagging along. Lyanna usually drove them, but she’d received an urgent owl at the last minute with a summons from the Ministry.

“It’s Mad Eye,” Lyanna explained hurriedly, hastily grabbing her wand from the kitchen table as she hustled towards the door. “Something about an intruder.” A quick hug was spared for Arya, and then Sansa too, and then she was dashing out into the rain, her feet twisting on the soaked pavement as she Disapparated. 

The rain didn’t let up throughout their entire drive to King’s Cross in London, as if the foul weather had followed them, persistent in its goal to dampen their clothes and their moods. More goodbyes came when the Hogwarts Express was ready to depart, and then they were on their way, back to Hogwarts for their final year of schooling. 

Margaery was a prefect and thus couldn’t meet up with them right away, shut up instead with the other prefects in a compartment near the head of the train, where they were all briefed of new rules and passwords and regulations. So it was just Sansa and Arya at first, along with Lady and Nymeria, until Gendry found them and slipped into the seat next to Arya, their talk quickly turning to Quidditch, as it often did. Sansa ignored them, lounging on her seat by the window with Lady curled up beside her, chin propped up on her lap. Gazing through the rain spattered window, Sansa idly ran her fingers through Lady’s fur as she talked with Petyr in her mind — he was already at Hogwarts, having traveled by Floo powder early that morning in order to make preparations for tomorrow.

‘Dumbledore’s agreed to make the announcement tonight, then?’

‘Along with news of the tournament, yes. And tomorrow morning our little enterprise will begin.’

‘I assume you’ll want me to come early to breakfast tomorrow?’

‘You want to go through the plan again?’

Sansa smiled out at the rain soaked countryside speeding by. ‘No. The first part’s not  **_that_ ** complex. Just confirming, that’s all.’

‘And you’re comfortable with this? I know you’d rather not be in the spotlight, if you can help it.’ Concern was laced through his thoughts. He was always second guessing whether she was truly a willing participant. Even after all this time, and the ritual that had bound them together for the rest of their lives.

‘Yes. This is different than what I’m usually in the spotlight for. It’s my choice,’ she reassured him.

‘You’re capitalizing on your fame as The Wolf Who Lived,’ he reminded her.

‘Again, it’s my choice. I’ll likely always be known as The Wolf Who Lived. Might as well make use of that fact.’ Sansa scratched Lady behind her ears, eliciting a contented sigh from the direwolf. ‘You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you weren’t confident I can pull this off.’

‘Oh, I know you can. You’ll have each and every one of them eating out of the palm of your hand. I look forward to it.’

 

* * *

 

The rest of the journey went by rather fast, the rain increasing its assault, the sky darkening to an unforgivable shade of grey. Margaery arrived sometime after lunch, looking rather glum, as she’d had to say goodbye to Fred that morning. He planned to come down and see her during every Hogsmeade weekend, but after a summer spent nearly inseparable it was going to be a difficult year for the two of them. Sansa didn’t envy her — at least Petyr was working at Hogwarts as the Potions Master. If he hadn’t continued the post she didn’t think she would have been able to bear it.

Margaery was upset too, and rightly so, about Fred and George’s difficulties with Ludo Bagman, and the money they were owed. Sansa had informed her of Bagman’s debts with the goblins, and expressed the sentiment that there was likely little hope of recompense, and Margaery had relayed as such to the twins, and yet they had refused to give up, at least for the moment. They were still clinging to the hope that Bagman was an honorable man, despite Sansa’s assurances that it was futile. Sansa couldn’t blame them — they’d lost their life savings, after all. Bagman hadn’t even paid them back the money they’d given him when they’d placed the bet.

But perhaps they’d have a stroke of luck. Sansa bet that their younger brother, Ron Weasley, would enter the Triwizard Tournament. And if he were selected as the Hogwarts Champion and won, well there were a thousand galleons in prize money. Ron would surely help out his brothers, if indeed that were his future.

Sansa also had a strong suspicion that Arya would be entering, and Gendry too, among many, many others. She doubted Margaery would though. And as for herself, well she wouldn’t be entering either. She’d had enough adventure last year, with the Chamber of Secrets, and quite enough adventure likely in her future. Not to mention, she and Petyr had plans. Plans which wouldn’t have her full attention if she were focused instead on a silly tournament.

She wondered who would be the Hogwarts Champion though, and who might enter the tournament that surprised her. Though she wouldn’t have long to wait — the announcement would come tonight at the welcoming feast. And after that, there’d be talk of nothing but — at least until the next announcement, which Sansa hoped would get just as much (if not more) buzz.

Rain was still sluicing from the sky when they arrived at Hogwarts, the thestral pulled carriages a welcome relief for all but the first years, who unfortunately were still set to make their trek across the Black Lake in tiny boats. When they finally made it into the entrance hall, Peeves was lobbing water balloons at unsuspecting students, one of which Sansa narrowly managed to avoid as she and her friends dove into the Great Hall.

Reluctantly, she parted from Margaery and Arya, heading for the Slytherin table while her two friends went to the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables, respectively. Normally they would all congregate at one table together, but their first night back was a stricter affair, and all students kept to the tables designated for their own houses. This meant a rather lonely feast on most occasions, but she brightened when she spotted Petyr already seated at the head table among the other teachers, and chose the seat closest to where he was sitting so it would almost feel like they were eating together as they silently conversed.

There was an empty chair next to Petyr where Gilderoy Lockhart, last year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, had once sat. Lockhart had had an accident at the end of term that resulted in severe memory loss, and was now a permanent resident at St. Mungo’s. Sansa had, in fact, been partly responsible for that (and Arya, and Arya’s wand), though nobody knew that. She was glad Lockhart wasn’t coming back — he’d been a horrible teacher, and completely insufferable. 

She did wonder though, who had been found to replace him?

‘Alastor Moody.’

Sansa glanced up, surprised. ‘Mad Eye?’

At the head table, Petyr took a drink from his goblet, the gesture hiding the smirk that was wrought upon his lips. ‘Yes.’

‘Lyanna went to his place this morning,’ she remembered. ‘Said there was some kind of disturbance.’

‘It was nothing. Mad Eye’s getting a bit jumpy in his old age, that’s all. He’s spent so many years rooting out Death Eaters that he sees them in his own shadow.’

Sansa fought against wrinkling her nose, not wanting to garner any strange looks. ‘Doesn’t sound like a good candidate for our new teacher.’

‘He’s a good friend of Dumbledore’s. And while he’s not exactly entirely sound of mind anymore, he was once one of the best among the Aurors. He’ll have plenty to teach you.’ A pause. ‘And he’ll certainly be better than your last Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.’

That she couldn’t deny.

The sorting began later than usual, the first years sopping wet and shivering from their journey across the Black Lake. Students grew antsy as the Sorting Hat was placed on each first year’s head, tired and eager for the feast that would come once it finished. Partway through, the door to the Great Hall crashed open, revealing the newly arrived Alastor Moody, his hair grizzled, his clawed wooden foot thumping with each step, and the magical eye that had earned him the nickname ‘Mad Eye’ spinning crazily in its socket. 

Sansa had never personally met Mad Eye, but she’d heard quite a bit about him over the years. He’d helped train her Aunt Lyanna, back in the day. A formidable Auror, with countless scars to prove it. Apart from the clawed foot and the missing eye, whose replacement could see through anything, he had great chunks missing in his hair, and even from his nose.

The hall was quiet as he stumped to the head table, swigging from a flask he produced from his coat before sitting down. Whispers erupted shortly after, then died down after a stern look from Professor McGonagall, who was intent on finishing the Sorting. Finally, the last kid skipped off to join the Ravenclaw table and Dumbledore rose from his seat, a speech ready upon his lips. Sansa straightened in her chair, her heart thrumming with anticipation. 

This was it, the culmination of years of preparation. 

The game was about to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the chapter - as always, comments and kudos make my heart go ring a ding ding ;)
> 
> Also, you can find me on tumblr as @petyrbaealish 
> 
> <333


	10. Announcements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore makes some announcements. Technology comes to Hogwarts.
> 
> Featuring an edit by @quoyan11 (on tumblr)
> 
> Dedicated to my friend Lyra, for her birthday and for all of her support and for how good of a friend she's been to me since we met. Muchos abrazos <3333333

“Before we tuck into this year’s feast, I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t give you a few morsels to whet your appetites for conversation. Tonight I have three announcements of particular import and interest that will beg for further discussion as you enjoy the many delights the house elves have prepared for you. However, as I know your stomachs are hungrier for food than your minds are for knowledge, at present, I will strive to speak as succinctly as possible.” Dumbledore smiled down at them, his half moon glasses glinting in the candlelight.

“Firstly, I would like to introduce a dear friend of mine, Alastor Moody, who has been kind enough to take on the post vacated last term by Gilderoy Lockhart. Please join me in welcoming our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.” Dumbledore clapped as he nodded towards Mad Eye, but apart from the staff, few students joined in. Mad Eye gave a gruff nod, his magical eye spinning in its socket, and drank from his flask, his every manner cutting a rather imposing figure that didn’t exactly incite applause.

Clearing his throat, Dumbledore continued, “Secondly, it is with great regret that I must inform you that Quidditch has been cancelled for this term.” There was an uproar of noise, Arya’s voice predominant among the chatter, but Dumbledore raised his hand for quiet and silence was quickly regained. “In its place will be a tournament I think you’ll find well worth the sacrifice. After many years, the Ministry has decided to resurrect the Triwizard Tournament, a competition for glory amongst three different champions from three different schools. In this tournament each champion will be tested in nerve, skill, and wit, and upon its end a winner will receive the Triwizard Cup and one thousand galleons in prize money.”

A current of excitement stirred the students in the Great Hall, and Sansa held back a smile. Just like that, all ire against the loss of Quidditch had been forgotten. 

“Students from the wizarding schools of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will be joining us on October 30th, and will stay with us for the duration of the school year as the competition unfolds. Any student of seventeen years or older is eligible to enter for a chance to become their school’s champion, the selection of which will take place on October the 31st.”

Dumbledore paused, the smile upon his lips widening. Sansa’s heart skipped a beat as she saw Petyr’s lips twitch — the beginnings of a very self satisfied smirk. “Finally, even for those not competing in the tournament this should prove a most exciting year. Our very own Potions Master has gained permission from myself to introduce and distribute a new product and means of communicating that I daresay you’ll all find fascinating.”

Dumbledore paused briefly for effect, then continued, “It seems he has finally bridged the gap between that of our magical world and the technology Muggles are so dearly reliant upon. With time and patience he has discovered a means to allow magic and Muggle technology to coexist, and thus hopes to usher us all into a new age, one where wizards can take advantage of the conveniences Muggle technology has to offer. Those of you with close ties to Muggles likely are well aware of the implications of such a discovery, and I am certain your friends would well benefit from your edification on the subject. A brief presentation will follow the feast concerning this new product, and all of the advantages that come with it. Until then, bon appetit.”

The feast materialized upon these last words and everyone dug in, heaping their golden plates full of food, talk erupting. Sansa helped herself to some roast chicken and spent the next hour listening to her fellow students (both in spoken conversation and in their thoughts), gauging their interest. Talk of the tournament dominated that of the announcement concerning Muggle technology, but she could see that many Muggleborns, and half bloods with at least one Muggle parent, were intrigued. And many purebloods who hadn’t the slightest clue as to what Muggles did without magic were pestering those who did know for answers. 

Hermione Granger was patiently filling in many of the Gryffindors, with the help of Dean Thomas. Meanwhile, those at the Hufflepuff table were listening to Justin Finch-Fletchley, a seventh year Muggleborn whom had spent much of last year Petrified in the hospital wing. And quite a few Ravenclaws were listening to Luna Lovegood, who actually seemed to know a great deal about Muggle technology, though Sansa could tell those listening weren’t sure whether to believe her or not — Luna had a tendency to believe in matters considered odd even in the wizarding world, like nargles and the Rotfang Conspiracy.

Petyr was doing the same as Sansa, gathering intel on this first spike of interest, filing away what he learned to better market the product he intended to unveil after the feast and begin distributing tomorrow morning. By the time the remnants of the feast and the dessert that followed after vanished from the tables, she knew he was well pleased with what he had learned. The students of Hogwarts were intrigued, the only ones expressing any distaste those they had expected (namely Joffrey Baratheon, and other students deeply steeped in their hatred of Muggles and everything to do with them).

Dumbledore rose from his seat and cleared his throat, the Great Hall quieting at that simple command. “Now that our bellies are all nice and full, I would like to hand things off to Professor Baelish, before I detail a few last minute announcements and you head off to your nice warm beds.” He nodded at Petyr and resumed his seat, clasping his hands and tilting his chin expectantly.

Petyr stood and waved his wand, an enormous television screen appearing in midair just behind the head table. Several students gasped, their mouths falling open. Another wave of his wand and every candle guttered out, enveloping the hall in darkness but for the occasional flash of lightning in the enchanted sky overhead. Sansa’s heart hammered in her chest, the mockingbird over her heart of a similar tempo. The television flickered to life, and the video he’d made began.

There he was on the screen, even as he was standing below it, his outline visible only from the light the television cast. That signature smirk very much present, he opened his mouth and began to speak. “Good evening, students and esteemed colleagues. I trust I find you all well. What you see before you is merely a recording, a way Muggles have found to capture the past and keep it always. Muggles call them videos, and the device upon which you are viewing it is called a television, or simply TV.”

As Petyr spoke, words scrawled across the screen, slow enough to read. Subtitles, he had called them, when he’d shown her the video earlier. 

“Making and viewing videos is but one of the many ways you may use your new smartphone, if indeed you choose to purchase one,” Petyr continued. “In addition, you’ll also be able to take photographs, make phone calls, send messages, take notes, and browse and use the internet, which has a wealth of information and entertainment available for your perusal.” 

He produced his phone from his pocket and the camera zoomed in until only the phone filled the screen and nothing else. “Each smartphone can be used by simply touching the screen, and comes with a guidebook to help you learn each of its functions.” 

He tapped the screen and words appeared, instructions detailing how to send a text message painstakingly spelled out so that even the most technology deficient wizards and witches could easily learn. “Guidebooks are installed here on your phone, and also come in physical form, with each purchase. They will teach you everything you need to know, but for those that require extra assistance, I’ll be conducting lessons on how to use them this Saturday, and every following Saturday you require it. Sign ups are on the bulletin boards in your common rooms.”

Sansa knew he’d planned to have lessons for such purposes, but she still didn’t like the idea that she might be robbed of spending time with him every Saturday for awhile. Oh, the sacrifices she made….

“Each phone is designed to hold a full charge indefinitely, and will connect to the internet anywhere you might happen to be. The limitations normal Muggle technology has do not apply to these smartphones, which I have designed specifically to coexist with magic, and have improved upon greatly to negate any inconveniences.” Petyr paused. “Finally, if you’re on the fence as to whether you should bother with purchasing one, let me add one further incentive. I well know how heavy and cumbersome lugging your school books around Hogwarts can be, especially when each teacher, myself included, requires that you bring your book to each lesson. But purchase a smartphone and learn how to use it, and you only need bring  **_it_ ** to class, leaving your textbooks to collect dust in your dormitories.” 

He tapped at the screen again, on an image that looked like a bookshelf, which grew to reveal each of the textbooks Sansa had been assigned this year, along with several from years past and a few others she didn’t recognize. “I’ve loaded digital versions of each of your textbooks to each smartphone, for your convenience. Your teachers have agreed that so long as you can prove you can use your phone to read your textbook, you may bring it to class to use for your studies, in place of the physical copy. Provided they do not distract from your lessons, of course.” 

A murmur rippled throughout the Great Hall, excited whispers hissing in the darkness. Clearly the idea of replacing all of their textbooks with one small device was a considerable draw, just as Petyr had said it would be. Sansa loved reading from physical copies of books, but she couldn’t deny the convenience of digital copies — she’d amassed quite a collection of books on her own phone, both written by Muggles and by wizards (Petyr had linked something he called a credit card to her phone, and told her she could buy anything she wanted, and as for any wizarding reading material she wanted, she only needed to find a copy and he transferred the contents into her phone with a spell). 

The camera panned back to reveal Petyr again, standing in the office he used at Hogwarts. “Smartphones will be on sale starting at breakfast tomorrow. There will be a booth set up here in the Great Hall, which will be overseen by an associate of mine during mealtimes every day this week. Cost is ten galleons. The price will increase after the first few days, so be sure to take advantage of the deal while you can.” Another smirk and the screen faded to black, the Petyr of the present waving his wand to restore the flames of each candle and vanish the now darkened television. 

Chatter erupted, then dampened again as Dumbledore briefed them all on the reminders they received every year (don’t go into the Forbidden Forest, hence the name) and informed them of a few of Filch the caretaker’s new bans on popular wizarding products. And then they were dismissed, and Sansa left Petyr and her friends behind to head for the Slytherin common room, though she ached to head to his chambers instead. The common room was lively with talk of summer fun, the Triwizard Tournament, and Muggle technology, but Sansa left that behind too, finding Lady curled on her bed in the dormitory she shared with the other seventh year girls. She was tired, and she had a big day ahead of her.

One that would change everything.

 

* * *

 

The next morning the Great Hall was abuzz far earlier than normal. Sansa had awoken well before breakfast, taking special care with her hair and makeup and making sure her uniform was wrinkle free and spotless. She wanted to look her best today (though of course she always took pride in her appearance), for all eyes would be on her as she helped make history. 

Arya and Margaery had come early too, badgered into it by Sansa beforehand (though only Arya had really needed convincing, as she usually rolled out of bed with only minutes to go before class, unless she had no other choice). Sansa met her friends by the enormous doors leading into the Great Hall, and together they went in, heading straight for the booth set up near the head table. Olyvar was seated behind the table, lounging languidly in his chair as he fiddled with his own phone (partially for the benefit of those watching, Sansa knew). As they approached, the chatter in the hall quieted considerably, heads turning, eyes tracking their progress.

Olyvar glanced up from his phone and brightened, sitting up straighter as Sansa stopped beside the booth, her gaze trailing along the boxes of phones neatly stacked atop its surface. “Well well, if it isn’t The Wolf Who Lived. Interested in buying a phone, are we?”

Arya opened her mouth to respond, but Sansa spoke first, tapping her finger against one of the boxes. “Perhaps.” She could feel all eyes on her, watching. Judging. Curious. “I’ve seen phones before, at my Uncle Rhaegar’s.” Name dropping Rhaegar couldn’t hurt. He was famous after all, in his own right. “He likes Muggle technology, you see. My aunt too. But none of it ever seems to work properly.” She tapped at the box again. “How are these any different?”

Olyvar grinned at her, then held out his phone. “See for yourself.”

Sansa took the phone from him and prodded at the screen, careful to keep the movement hesitant, uncertain, never betraying how adept she’d become at using one. “What do I do? What  **_can_ ** I do?”

Olyvar leaned forward and pointed at a little blue microphone in a white space at the top of the phone (the search bar, she knew). “Tap that with your finger, then say ‘cute animal videos.’”

Sansa frowned for the benefit of those watching, then shrugged and did as he’d instructed. The phone searched for cute animal videos for her, Margaery and Arya watching, rapt, over her shoulder. “Tap one that looks interesting,” Olyvar told her.

There was a video featuring pandas playing on children’s play equipment, so Sansa selected that, giggling along with Arya and Margaery as pandas rolled down slides (they really looked so uncoordinated and clumsy, it was adorable) and tried to climb all over their handlers. Before she knew it, the sound of the video (and their amusement) had drawn others to her side, all clamoring for a better view. Sansa replayed the video (prompted by Olyvar, who showed her — or rather everyone else —  how to), then played another, and another, each time gaining more onlookers. 

When the whole of the Great Hall was clustered around her, she passed off the phone to Margaery (who was better at handling the phone than Arya), and picked up one of the boxes, one of Petyr’s phones packaged neatly inside. “I’ll take one.”

The video on the phone Margaery was holding didn’t have a chance against Sansa purchasing her very own smartphone. Again all eyes were on her as she passed over the gold and opened the box, which held both the phone and the manual Petyr had made to help minimize the frustration of learning to use it. She was just turning it on (prompted by Olyvar) when Margaery gave the phone to Arya and strode forward, intent on purchasing her own. Arya went next, handing the phone to Luna Lovegood, and that sealed it.

Interest sparked, more followed, Muggleborns and those with Muggle relatives predominant, though there were a few purebloods, too. Gendry purchased a phone, as did Dean Thomas, Luna Lovegood, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter, Colin and Dennis Creevey, and even Astoria Greengrass. Hermione Granger did not, but then Sansa hadn’t expected her to. Though Hermione was Muggleborn and well used to technology, she was an avid reader and lover of books, and Sansa had figured she’d prefer to use them in in their physical form, eschewing convenience in favor of aesthetic. Ron Weasley didn’t purchase one either, but from the way he was eyeing Harry’s phone, it was only a matter of time.

Sansa and her friends left the crowd behind, their job done, and found seats together at the Slytherin table, who Sansa knew would likely be the toughest to bring over. They dug into breakfast, playing with their new phones, watching videos while they ate, and before she knew it Petyr was walking down their table, handing out the schedules. Realizing Margaery and Arya had better get their own schedules, she prodded them until they looked up from their phones (Arya cracking up over the panda video again) and sent them on their way.

And when she looked up, nearly half of those in the Great Hall seemed to have phones in their hands, the holdouts glancing over the shoulders of those who had them, or (and this was a rare few) scowling into their plates of eggs and bacon.

Her heart soared.  

‘You’ve done well, sweetling. I shall have to reward you later.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I know it's been quite awhile since I've updated this fic (or any other) and I feel bad about that but I've been going through a rough patch lately. This fic won't be abandoned, however, nor any of my others (Heart and Soul, The Curse of the Mockingbird's Song). It just will take me a lot longer than usual to update for awhile (hopefully not forever) and I won't have a regular update schedule. Hopefully you'll find the wait worth it and stick with me!
> 
> And I hope you enjoyed the chapter - thoughts/comments and kudos are much appreciated, as always. I always look forward to hearing what people think about my work :)
> 
> <333

**Author's Note:**

> So it's finally up! I hope you liked the first chapter!
> 
> Updates may be once a week or once every two weeks. Haven't decided yet. Either way, I'll try to update on a regular schedule :). 
> 
> Eager to hear your thoughts!


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